


Don't Get Me Wrong

by lemonoclefox



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Artist Steve Rogers, Barista Bucky Barnes, Dogs, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Interior Designer Steve, Light Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Sort Of, Steve has a dog, idk what this is but it's soft, it's not angsty or heavy, super relevant tbh, they're both okay, you can have mental health issues and still be okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2019-10-31 01:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17839784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonoclefox/pseuds/lemonoclefox
Summary: The cute barista remembers his shirt.alternatively; a sweet story about a chance encounter between two people trying to get back on their feet, and them becoming friends (and more) in the process.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It was only a matter of time, but here I am, my very first foray into posting stucky fic for the world to see. It's a (shamelessly self-indulgent) oneshot that somehow evolved into a multi-chapter thing which I now have big(ish) plans for. Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. This fic is definitely still ongoing, just a little slow with the updates. But if you want something to hold you over while you wait, I've also got a fun little three-part fic going on over [here](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/50116883?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#main).

This is why Steve always brings coffee from home. The whole idea of overpaying to stand in line while surrounded by mostly cranky people, just to get a hot drink he could easily make himself, has never really made sense to him. And yet, here he is, pushing the door of a coffee shop open, at an hour that straddles the line between early and late for anyone with a nine-to-five job.

In his defense, it wasn't his idea.

It's not too crowded, being an independent coffee shop rather than part of a big chain, but still enough for most of the seats to be taken, so when Peggy spots a small table just being vacated in the corner, she drags Steve towards it.

"Go," she says, shooing him gently toward the counter as she sits down. "I'll save our seats."

Steve shrugs off his jacket and scarf―it may be chilly winter outside, but the temperature shift suddenly has him sweating in here―and drapes them and his shoulder bag over the chair across from her. He gives his friend an appreciative glance, before making his way over to join the long line leading up to the register.

He glances at the clock on the wall―a retro-looking thing, with a scuffed frame and roman numerals ―as a flustered-looking woman falls in behind him, clearly as anxious to get her morning coffee as everyone else. It's a little loud in here, but Steve feels calmer when he sees the time; just past seven. He has another half hour before he has to get his stuff worked out for the meeting with his client.

The line moves surprisingly quickly, and before Steve knows it, it's his turn to order.

"What can I get you?" the barista says, the words coming out in an exhale. The guy looks to be in his late twenties, like Steve, with dark circles under his eyes and dark hair pulled back into a bun that's quickly on its way to unraveling, by the looks of it. Steve doesn't want to keep him; the poor guy looks more than a little sleep-deprived, and clearly already has enough to deal with. Steve pointlessly scans the menu up behind him for a split second, already knowing what to order.

"Um," he says, switching it up a bit from what he usually gets, "a chai latte and a mocha, please. Both medium."

The barista nods, grabs two paper cups and a sharpie. He throws Steve another glance, eyes darting to the print on the t-shirt that peeks out from underneath his unzipped hoodie, before looking down.

"Whipped cream, or just straight?" the guy asks, now with that same tired albeit friendly tone every barista seems to have. "For the mocha."

"Not straight," Steve blurts without thinking, immediately realizing how it sounds. His neck heats up with embarrassment. "Uh, whipped cream. Please."

The guy looks up at him, eyebrows slightly raised as he keeps his face tilted downward. There's the smallest, amused smile curving his mouth, and he looks slightly less weary than he did a moment ago.

"Right," he says, scribbling on the cup in his hand. "Name?"

"Steve. For both."

The barista nods, scribbling on the other cup as well, before passing them both on to the petite girl next to him; she looks more focused than he does, long hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she immediately gets to work. The guy smiles at his customer.

"It'll be ready in second, Steve," he says as Steve pays for his order. It's impossible not to return his tired smile as Steve steps away to let past the next person in line. His eyes linger maybe for a second too long on the guy at the counter―whose tired attention and smiles have already moved on to someone else―before he turns away to wait for his drinks.

"What was that?" Peggy asks, once Steve returns to their table. Clearly, she was watching the whole thing; she tends to be uncannily aware of her surroundings, in general.

"Nothing," Steve says, sitting down and sliding Peggy's chai latte across the table; a winter drink, she insists, needlessly defending her fondness for the generic beverage. Steve sighs. "Except just me making an ass of myself, as usual."

He didn't even want whipped cream. He just said that to make his first reply slightly less embarrassing―he doesn't even know why he said  _that_ _,_ to begin with. He tries to keep a straight face as he sips his now too-rich drink. It's too hot, too.  _Idiot_ _._

"Well, you got a charmed smile from a cute boy," Peggy says, sipping her drink with far too much elegance for someone drinking out of a paper cup. "I'd say you didn't make a complete ass of yourself."

Steve gives her a tired look, with a smile to match.

"Always the optimist," he says, and Peggy grins. Then her brows knit slightly, as she looks at his t-shirt.

"I can't believe you still have that," she says, nodding at it. Steve looks down at the print; flat-colored with various shades of gray, a minimalistic outline of a head symmetrically covered with long nails.

"Perks of being self-employed," he says cheekily, leaning back in his seat. He tugs on the shirt lightly. "No dress code."

"Still," Peggy says, with some fondness. "The print's starting to crack."

"It's vintage," Steve deadpans. In truth, it was brand new when he got it, years ago. He's just very fond of it, likes to think of it as a lucky charm, in a way. Not that he believes in luck, but he can use all the help he can get where client-meetings are concerned. And he'll be changing into something more appropriate once he gets to the office, anyway; it's mostly just a comfort, just like the chocolate-espresso drink in his hands, which he barely ever orders otherwise.

Peggy quirks her eyebrows with a small shake of her head, bringing her drink to her red-painted lips.

"If you say so."

 

* * *

 

Later that week, Steve has lost all sense of time and space, when he finally decides to call it a night and head home for the day. He's glad he settled on renting this office space a few months ago, rather than working from home; if he worked from home, he would never leave his apartment at all.

It's not that he minds the occasional, late hours―Steve works best when it's on his own terms, anyway. But coming out of that weird, working-late bubble he tends to shut himself into is always an adjustment; just blinking and suddenly noticing that the world has gone from noon to midnight is quite the sensation, one that's always a bit surreal. Even more so when he steps outside onto the street, wrapped up in his winter jacket, scarf and gloves. He shivers anyway, too tired to not hate the cold, at the moment.

Steve starts heading down the sidewalk, hands shoved in his pockets, breath already coming out in small puffs of steam. It's not a long walk to his place, he made sure of that when looking for an office space, but the idea of a fifteen-minute walk suddenly starts looking like a marathon. He has barely made it two blocks before he feels like just sitting down and just taking a breather.

He spots it then; large street-facing windows, warm light coming from inside, a sign sitting outside on the sidewalk with welcoming offers of hot drinks and baked goods. Above the entrance glows the neat, big lettering of the coffee shop's name; Lola. The very same place Steve and Peggy went for breakfast, the other day.

Thank god for 24/7 coffee shops.

Steve never usually goes at this time of day, but he'll make an exception tonight. He has earned it, he thinks, as he looks both ways and crosses the mostly-empty street. It's not like he's in any hurry to get home; Sam took it upon himself to dog-sit until morning, just in case Steve ended up working late.

Stepping through the door is like stepping into another world, one with soft lights, and low music spilling from hidden speakers. The air is warm, wafting with the smell of coffee and day-old chocolate muffins, and Steve exhales as the door closes behind him, his muscles unwinding. He had no idea it would be so different, at night. After only ever seeing this place in early mornings and the occasional afternoon, seeing it almost empty at midnight is an almost surreal experience. Like most places, he supposes, it just becomes something else entirely once night falls. A little pocket universe.

He pulls off his gloves and stuffs them in his jacket, rubbing his hands together as the warmth of the place starts spreading through his cold fingers. There's no one at the register, but Steve assumes whoever's working heard the door, so he waits, patiently and quietly, by the counter.

Sure enough, he soon hears low voices from the back room, then footsteps, and an apron-clad man makes his way over to the register. He's in the process of pulling shoulder-length hair back with an elastic, and he huffs a breath as he secures it.

"Sorry about that," he says.

"It's okay," Steve says easily. "I'm not in a rush."

The barista sighs.

"Thanks," he says, looking up as he plants his hands against the counter, a smile on his face. "What can I get you?"

Steve straightens a little. It's the guy from the other day, the one he entirely embarrassed himself in front of with the stupid whipped-cream incident. He looks much more well-rested this time, dark circles gone and a brighter demeanor about his expression, which somehow makes his dark stubble look more deliberate than accidental. Steve relaxes a little. There's no way this guy remembers him, anyway, so he should be safe. No one pays as much attention to you as you yourself do, after all, too busy minding their own business. Steve, especially, learned this at a very young age.

"Yeah," Steve starts, "I―" He suddenly realizes he doesn't know what to order; he's so used to coming in during the day for something to wake him up, that he doesn't quite know what to order in the middle of the night before going home to bed. He opens his mouth to say something, blinks. "Uh, coffee?"

The barista raises his eyebrows.

"Are you asking me or telling me?" he says, good-naturedly, and Steve feels himself blush from embarrassment. His cheeks must be flushed from stepping in from the cold, though, so it probably doesn't show. Hopefully.

"Sorry," he says with a slightly self-conscious laugh. "I'm just... tired. Um, coffee, please. Decaf."

The guy smiles sympathetically.

"Coming right up."

Steve returns his smile with an appreciative one, and the barista gets to work. Aside from whoever Steve can hear humming to themselves in the back room, there appears to be no one else on shift, and given the lack of customers, the guy doesn't bother asking Steve's name. While he starts on the order, however, Steve lets his eyes fall on the nametag pinned to his chest; James. That's helpful. At least now Steve can refer to him by name in his head, and not just as Cute Barista In Front Of Whom He Embarrassed Himself That One Time.

His gaze may linger a second too long, because when he looks up, James is glancing back and forth between him and his work. There's a small frown on his face, and Steve feels his neck heat up, praying he'll be spared an obvious, embarrassing blush, just this once. James keeps working, eyes still darting to Steve and back. Steve must have something on his face, or on his jacket, maybe something in his teeth, or he's just staring too much. And he can't just leave, he's just standing here like an idiot, he needs to leave as soon as possible bef―

"You were in here the other day." It's phrased as something between a question and a statement, and James keeps his frown as he says it, the coffee pouring into the paper cup. Steve blinks. He wasn't expecting that.

"Well, I'm in here sometimes," he says, a little awkwardly, for lack of anything else, maybe a little too slowly. James must have him confused with someone else. "So, probably."

"No, I mean―" James cuts himself off to save the paper cup from running over. "I remember the Pinhead shirt."

He keeps his eyes on the cup as he says it, and Steve is glad; he's certain the strange swoop in his stomach is obvious in his expression, at least for a moment.  _Oh_ _._

"Oh."

James looks up.

"That was you," he says, once again somewhere between a question and a statement, as though unsure. Steve nods. James clicks his tongue and shoots an actual finger gun in Steve's direction. "I knew it. Made an impression."

He looks back down to carefully secure the lid on the cup, and Steve tries not to smile. It's ridiculous to be happy about a cute stranger remembering his t-shirt, but he'll take it.

"My shirt did?" he asks, to his own surprise. He's even more surprised by how steady and decidedly not-awkward his voice sounds. James chuckles, shrugs.

"I liked it," he says. He hands Steve his coffee. "I meant to say as much at the time, but then ended up just... not."

Steve takes the offered cup, cradles it in his hands. He has warmed up since he stepped inside from the cold, but the warmth against his palms has a calming effect, nonetheless.

"Well," he says, a little hesitantly. "Then, thank you. For that, and the coffee."

James breaks into a smile that looks a little too genuine to be just for a customer's benefit.

"You're welcome," James says, accepting the money Steve hands over and offering back some change, all of which Steve puts in the tip jar. James gives him a small, appreciative smile, and after a moment's pause, Steve figures he should probably go. "You got a favorite?  _Hellraiser_ , I mean."

Steve straightens a little, surprised, but takes a breath as he immediately settles into more familiar, comfortable territory. This kind of small-talk, he knows, no matter how unexpected it may be at the moment.

"Boring answer, maybe," he says, "but I'll always love the first one."

James makes a pleasantly surprised, approving gesture.

"There's a reason most people agree," he says. "It's one of a kind."

"Yeah," Steve breathes, smiling, oddly relieved. "There's something to be said for the later ones, though. Pinhead in space, for instance, is a concept the world just wasn't ready for."

He says it lightly, with eyebrows raised and a small shrug, which brings an eye-crinkling grin to James's face that Steve for some reason feels thrilled about putting there.

"Still isn't, some might say." James gets a somewhat haunted look. "The first one fucked me up for years, though. Granted, I was ten, first time I saw it. But still."

Steve hums in agreement.

"Same," he says, thinking back. "And number eight." He sips his coffee. It barely touches the tip of his tongue before he realizes it's too hot―obviously―and he lowers it again. "I watched that one at 2 a.m., running on barely any sleep. Not a great combination."

"Oh god," James says with an oddly appalled laugh. "I don't even wanna talk about that one. It's too..." He waves his hand. "Meta."

Steve laughs, looks down at his cup. There's a pause, and he once again considers just leaving. And once again, James inadvertently stops him.

"Can I ask you something?" he says, and Steve looks up. He nods. "Last time I saw you was at 7 a.m., with the morning rush. This time, it's past midnight. On a Thursday. What's up with that?"

Steve presses his lips together.

"Work," he says. "It runs late, sometimes. I sort of make my own hours, for better or worse."

James nods slowly.

"What do you do?" he says. Steve tries to keep it together, a little overwhelmed by how this guy actually seems interested. This goes beyond just ordinary small-talk, after all, though he tries not to read too much into it. James simply must have nothing to do, at the moment.

"Interior design," he says. "Freelance."

"Oh, cool," James says, eyebrows raised, visibly surprised. Most people are when they hear what he does for a living, and it always makes Steve a little bit self-conscious. "And what does that entail, exactly? If I may ask."

Steve opens his mouth to reply, before he considers how underwhelming and uninteresting it must sound to someone else, and just exhales.

"I don't wanna bore you," he says, a little awkwardly, but doing his best to be polite and casual about it. "And you're working."

James pulls back with a serious, relieved expression.

"God, you're right," he says. "Can't leave all these customers waiting."

He gestures behind Steve, who turns―only to find that the coffee shop is completely empty, aside from himself, James, and the handful of night owls already seated with laptops and books and headphones. He turns back to James, who gives him a pointed eyebrow-raise.

"Still," Steve says. He's not sure why. He does want to keep talking to this guy, after all.

James sighs.

"You can leave if you want to, I won't be offended." Beneath the light tone, there is sincere permission, graciously giving Steve an out. When Steve doesn't move, instead just shifts a little where he stands, James seems to take it as a good sign. He looks around for a moment, before grabbing a large paper cup and a napkin. "I can pretend I'm multi-tasking, if it makes you feel better." He starts wiping the inside of the cup with the napkin―both already clean and dry, as is―his brow settling into a frown. "What's eatin' you, pal?" he asks in a thick Brooklyn accent, in what Steve assumes is his best bartender-voice. He can't help but let out a snort he's simply too tired to be embarrassed by, right now.

"Uh," he says, while James seems subtly pleased by his reaction. "Got a project that needs finishing, just a little stressed about that, I guess."

James nods seriously, keeps wiping out the cup. He holds it up to the light, as though checking for stains on a glass, and Steve tries not to smile too wide.

"I feel you," James says with a weary sigh, lowering the cup to keep wiping it down. He shakes his head. "Life, man." Steve just raises his eyebrows at him, and James huffs a laugh. "So what it is?"

His voice has gone back to normal, and he tosses the napkin onto his shoulder and puts the cup down, his hands now leaning against the edge, still in true bartender-fashion. Steve clears his throat.

"A particularly fussy client is being... difficult."

"Fussy?" James says with a smile. "Is your client three years old?"

"Might as well be."

"Uh-huh," James says, straightening up, removing the napkin from his shoulder. "I get it. Half the people who come in here are on the verge of murder before they get their shot of caffeine, even at night. Not always the easiest crowd to deal with."

"I've noticed," Steve sympathizes. "I wouldn't last long with a job like this, I'd be in the fetal position on the floor by day two."

James makes a small noise of approval, leaning his hip against the counter and folding his arms, absently scrunching up the napkin in one hand. His long-sleeved, black Henley fits snugly around torso, giving off an impression of relaxed, casual confidence that Steve usually finds annoying in an almost envious kind of way. Not with this guy, though.

"Well, as someone who's been here for over six months," James says, "I'm gonna take that as a compliment."

Steve narrows his eyes.

"Can I ask  _you_ something?" he says, and James waves his hand as though saying,  _go ahead_ _._ "Last time I saw  _you_ was at 7 a.m.. How'd you end up working a night shift?"

James huffs a laugh.

"It's the other way around," he says. "I mostly work nights. But when a friend calls you at six in the morning, puking his guts out, you try to be a good bro and cover his shift. Even if it means doing it on three hours of sleep."

That explains his worn-out look last time, Steve thinks.

Steve lifts the lid off of his coffee and blows at the drink gently, taking a tentative sip. The temperature is more manageable now, and he drinks a little more. Damn, it's good coffee. Especially for his exhausted brain at half past midnight.

"That does sound like a good bro," Steve agrees solemnly. James grins, takes a breath as he glances around the room.

"I'm Bucky, by the way," he says, turning back to Steve as though this just occurred to him. Steve's eyebrows shoot up, his eyes darting to the nametag on James's chest. James follows his gaze and flicks the little plastic rectangle. "Uh yeah, James. But everyone calls me Bucky. I prefer it."

"Then why does it say James?" Steve asks, and James―Bucky―lets out a long-suffering sigh.

"Something about professionalism," he says tiredly, with a vague gesture. "Personally, I think a nickname would make me and this place seem more approachable, if anything, but the boss doesn't agree." He shrugs. "She's cool, though. Just a little rigid, sometimes."

"Makes sense," Steve says. "So, Bucky then?" Bucky nods once, and Steve returns it. "I'm Steve."

"I knew it was something starting with S," Bucky says, shaking his head. "A lot of names come through here every day, it's hard to keep track. I remembered your shirt more than your name. And your face."

Steve shouldn't flush a little at that, given how it sounded more like just a statement than a compliment, but he does, all the same. This guy remembered his face.

"Well, I'm flattered," he says, sounding more casual than he feels. "Always happy when someone appreciates some good merch."

Bucky laughs, making his eyes crinkle.

While Steve could easily stand here for at least another hour, just talking, a glance at the clock on the wall tells him he should definitely head home. He exhales.

"I should go," he says, can't help the reluctance in his voice. Actually, he kind of hopes Bucky can hear it. "It's already way past my bedtime, and I've got work tomorrow."

Bucky chuckles, looks just a little bit disappointed.

"Fair," he says. "Feel free to stop by anytime, though. Preferably on weekdays between 8 p.m. and 2 a.m. Ish."

Steve huffs a laugh, averting his eyes for a second, which seems to please Bucky.

"I'll try," Steve says, putting the lid back on his coffee and taking a sip. It's just right, now, and he makes a move to leave.

"Oh, hang on," Bucky interrupts, making him look up. Bucky proceeds to grab a paper bag and some tongs, gesturing at the muffins and bagels, clapping the tongs together. "Preference?"

Steve blinks.

"Uh," he says. "Blueberry?"

Bucky nods, grabbing a giant blueberry muffin and putting it in the bag, which he rolls up before handing it to Steve. Steve takes it, with obvious hesitation.

"On the house," Bucky says. He shrugs at the sight of Steve's apprehensive expression. "If it makes you feel better, we'd have to throw them out, anyway."

"Gee, thanks," Steve says, deadpan. Bucky grins.

"You're welcome," he says brightly. "Now go home, Steve. And good luck with, uh... your thing."

Steve chuckles, putting the muffin into his bag and slipping on his gloves as he backs away toward the entrance, coffee in hand.

"Thanks," he says. "You, too."

With a lame wave, returned by Bucky, he slips back out into the cold night, gripping his coffee cup and feeling considerably warmer than he did half an hour ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on [the twitters](https://twitter.com/lemonoclefox)! I'm also a fan of hashtags, so if you feel like talking about this story (or interact just in general, it's awesome either way), you can use _#DGMWfic_. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter, here we go! It's very short, and the chapters will get longer as we go, but for now we're just taking it a little slow and getting to know our boys better. I also can't say how often I'll be updating (writer's block is a fun thing), but I'm having a lot of fun writing this and there's plenty more planned, so fingers crossed. Enjoy!

Bucky tries not to think about it over the next few days, he really does. He's not sure when he last had a proper conversation with a customer, if ever, not in the half year since he's been working at _Lola_. It doesn't really happen; most people are in a rush, tired, or both. The barista is just a server, someone from whom you get a smile and a nice cup of coffee, before moving on with your day. Bucky doesn't mind. He's happy to help, happy to make some small-talk. And while it may be a menial job, menial is just what he wants, right now. What he needs.

Still. Just talking to someone about a dumb thing he enjoys was nice. Especially in the middle of the night, in the middle of a less than great week. And Steve seemed pretty sweet, too.

"You heading out?"

Bucky looks up at the sound of his boss's voice.

"Yeah," he says, untying his black waist-apron, still standing behind the counter. There's only one customer in here at the moment, sitting at a table in the corner, laptop open and their third cup of coffee in two hours steaming next to it. "Planning to."

Maria nods.

"Pete should be in, soon," she says, before adding a little dryly, "If he's on time."

Bucky huffs a laugh. Peter is definitely reliable, but tends to be a little scatter-brained. Bucky will never understand how the kid is able to work odd hours, deal with a pretty heavy workload at college, and still keep up such an abundance of bouncy energy.

"I'm sure he will be," Bucky says. He carefully gathers up his apron and hangs it on its designated hook just inside the door to the back room, grabbing his jacket, instead. "More importantly―" he turns to Maria― "why are you still here?"

Maria shrugs.

"Stuff to do," she says, folding her arms. Bucky raises his eyebrows.

"It's two in the morning," he says evenly.

"Yes, and there's stuff to do." Maria brushes past him, and he automatically steps out of her way. Being a former FBI agent, she carries herself with a certain kind of authority, and Bucky is once again completely baffled by her choice to switch careers. Going from catching dangerous and high-profile criminals to running a 24/7coffee shop? He hasn't asked her why, and he doesn't plan to, anytime soon. It's her business, being a very private person, and he'd kind of be too scared to ask, anyway.

Most of all, he's just grateful. Considering her background, he knows she did an extensive check on his when he applied for this job. She knows it all, and she hired him anyway.

"Stuff that can't wait till morning?" Bucky asks, while Maria circles the desk in the corner and gets back to whatever paperwork she was in the middle of, earlier.

"Go home, Barnes," is all she says, but there's no bite in her voice. Bucky grins.

"Sure thing, boss," he says. He pulls on his dark gray peacoat, wincing a little as he does. He's used to the twinge of pain that comes from moving his arm a certain way, by now, but it doesn't make it any less annoying or painful. Much like the constant, dull ache beneath it.

He wraps his black scarf around his neck, making sure his headphone cord running from the phone in his pocket is tucked underneath it―yes, he knows airpods exist, but he also knows himself well enough to know that he'd lose them in less than a day. When in place, the knitted scarf is long enough to comfortably cover the lower half of his face―nice and cozy. Just as he starts pulling on his gloves, the front door of the coffee shop opens with the slightest tinkle from the tiny bell above it.

"Sorry I'm late," Peter calls, just a little out of breath as he unzips his jacket and makes his way to the back room. Bucky frowns.

"You're not," he says, voice muffled from behind the scarf, and Peter stops dead. He backtracks and glances up at the clock behind the counter, making a small _huh_ sound.

"Cool."

Bucky shakes his head, and despite Maria's soft glower, he sees a trace of fondness in her expression. Bucky is actually glad that she's here, now that he's leaving; there are always at least two people working here at any given time, especially at night, for the sake of safety rather than a heavy workload. Luis, who has taken on more of a security role than a barista one during night shifts, has just stepped out for a bit, and Bucky knows he'll be back soon. Good thing, too―he's the only one who can keep up with Peter's particular brand of enthusiasm and quick conversation, half the time. While Maria could easily handle any potential disturbances, she has very little patience for Peter.

"Alright," Bucky says, grabbing his bag from the floor. "I'm off. See you tomorrow."

"Night, Bucky," Peter says, and Maria raises her hand in a half-hearted wave before looking back down at her desk. Bucky returns it, and heads out the front door and into the night.

The cold air hits him in the face, and he squints. It's not too bad, though. Not windy, at least. Still, it's enough to make him hunch his shoulders a bit as he shoves his gloved hands into his pockets. He should really start wearing a hat, a beanie or something―with his hair pulled back, his ears are even more exposed to the chill. He sighs, bringing out his headphones from under the scarf and putting them in his ears. He has a playlist all ready to go, so he lets it play, the volume low but still enough to block out the world around him a little bit.

He likes Brooklyn at night. Any time of day, really, but there's always something about being out at 2 a.m., especially on a weekday. Everything feels a little... otherworldly. He even enjoys the subway ride home, enjoys the short walk from the underground station to his apartment building, enjoys the shift from cold to warm as he punches in the code and steps inside the front entrance. He pulls his scarf down and inhales, before heading up the stairs rather than taking the elevator. He enjoys that, too.

Bucky enjoys a lot of little things, these days. Makes a point of paying attention to them. It was a suggestion from his therapist when he first started seeing one, and he has kept doing it, since. It helps.

Stepping into his apartment―five floors up―always makes his entire body relax. He takes a breath, exhales, unbuttons his coat and takes off his boots. He pauses the music and takes out the headphones, pulling them out from underneath his now unraveled scarf and wraps them up around his fingers, before putting them in the little miscellaneous-bowl on the small table by the door. It's all so routine that he barely even thinks about doing it. But the music isn't entirely discarded; Bucky just ends up pulling up another carefully curated playlist, docking his phone in a little speaker on the coffee table and letting different, home-from-work-at-three-in-the-morning -appropriate tones fill the room. There's a playlist for everything.

He always makes sure to turn on the lamps in his windows before leaving for work, keeping them lit all night until he gets home. It always creates a nice, welcoming atmosphere when he steps through the front door after a long shift, nicely paired with the music now softly filling up the small apartment.

Bucky heads into the kitchen and puts the kettle on, eyeing his tea selection before dumping a bag of green tea into a cup and waiting for the water to boil. It seems a little paradoxical, given his workplace, but he doesn't actually have any coffee at home. He tends to avoid caffeine in general, these days.

He grabs the little pill box Shuri thought was hilarious to give him for his birthday last year ("Matches you old-man soul," she said), and pops it open, plucking out the two pills left rattling around in the Tuesday compartment. He will admit that the damn thing is useful in remembering to keep up with his medication. Two different kinds, twice a day. A hassle, Bucky thinks, as he swallows them down with water, but worth it. A habit that's a small price to pay for a semi-stable life, and one he's kept up for almost two years now. It's effort, too. Not just pills, but effort and deliberate routines, every single day.

And it works, he thinks, as he gets ready for bed and turns off the dim lights, throwing his small apartment into darkness. He's okay. Bucky finds a certain kind of contentment in that, as he gets into bed with a book he's read twice already, low music still spilling from his phone while he picks up on the page where he left off last time. He takes a breath, exhales.

He's doing okay.

 

* * *

 

The incessant tapping of Steve's pencil is really starting to bother him, right about now. And he's the one doing it. He can't seem to stop, fingers flexing involuntarily and smacking the end of the pencil against the papers scattered across his desk, sketches and fabric samples creating a patchwork of something like progress. It's always tough, dealing with a client who starts off with a clear, albeit simple, idea of what they want, only to develop and elaborate on said idea until it becomes a big, contradictory mess. A contradictory mess that Steve is tasked with sorting out, in order to create a cohesive, aesthetically pleasing whole.

He wouldn't trade his job or the freedom of freelancing for anything, but sometimes it's a little unbearable, and he wishes he could just delegate a bit to someone else.

Steve exhales heavily, leaning back in his chair. It creaks a little, but it's comfortable and high-backed, with lumbar support and a memory foam seat to die for. His friends teased him a little about taking the choice of desk chair so seriously, but given that most of his work entails sitting down, it's an investment that has been worth every penny. It was a way of christening the new office space, when he first moved into it, several months ago.

Just as he rubs his eyes and deliberates whether or not to wait out the rest of his planned workday―when you're stuck, you're stuck―Steve's phone vibrates noisily against the desk. He picks it up with a tired, heavy sigh. It's a message from Sam, and Steve opens it to find a photo of his dog, Lucy; she's on her back, with her tongue lolling and her eyes open wide, belly exposed. She looks a little too excited, and the caption reads, _"I wanna know what they put in those liver treats"._ Steve huffs a laugh, instantly calmer and more awake.

 _Love and capitalism,_ he replies, but still ready to defend his purchase of Lucy's favorite treats, which tend to be on the more expensive side. _Want me to pick her up?_

 _Nah man,_ Sam writes. _Take your time. She's just being a little shit, is all._

Steve's chest somehow aches when he reads that, suddenly missing his dog so strongly that it's almost a physical pull beneath his ribs.

 _I'm almost done anyway,_ he writes. _I'll stop by soon._

 _Take your time, Steve._ Steve nods to himself and puts the phone down, just as the screen lights up with another message. _I mean it._

Steve glances at the minimalist clock on the wall. He doesn't actually _need_ it―he can tell the time just fine with his phone and his computer―but it adds a certain charm to the room. He does work in interior design, after all; it's not like he can shut off that part of his brain, especially not when it comes to a space in which he spends several hours a day. Not to mention, he needs to make a good impression.

The hands of the clock show that it's just past six p.m., and Steve taps his pencil against his desk again, this time in thought. He can continue most of his current brainstorming at home. He glances at all the papers and sketches and color swatches on the table, chewing his cheek.

Fuck it.

 _I'll be over soon,_ he writes to Sam, and ignores the no doubt reprimanding reply that makes his phone vibrate repeatedly, just seconds later. Instead, he focuses on cleaning up his large desk, stacking papers in neat piles and putting away all the swatches and fabric samples, until his entire, small office is in perfect order. He doesn't like arriving to a mess the next day, so he always makes sure to tidy up before he leaves.

It's not as cold today as it has been―one of those days in the winter-spring limbo that leaves plants, humans, and animals alike confused about what time of year it is. Still, Steve huddles a little in his jacket, hands in his pockets and messenger bag slung across his chest. Sam's place isn't far, though not quite as close as Steve's, so Steve opts for walking instead of public transport. It's a nice day, after all.

Said walk leads him past _Lola_ , or rather, across the street from it. Steve considers going inside for a moment―it's not even dark yet, though the lights and warmth from inside just look so inviting―but ultimately decides against it. Somehow, it doesn't have quite the same magnetic pull, during the day. He can't imagine why.

When he finally reaches Sam's building, he wastes no time in heading up to his apartment. The moment he knocks on the front door, he hears shuffling and barking from behind it, and it makes him smile.

"Alright, alright," Sam says, his voice muffled. "Sit. Sit, or he ain't coming in." A pause. "Atta girl."

Steve's met with a sigh and feigned exasperation when Sam opens the door. Well, there's some genuine exasperation in there, but Steve chooses to ignore it.

"Hey," he says instead, and the slightest whimper emits from Lucy, likely sitting behind Sam, out of sight.

"Hey," Sam says flatly. "Thought I told you to _take your time._ "

"Aw, dangit," Steve says, making an _oh shucks_ kind of gesture. "Must've missed that."

Sam shakes his head and pulls open the door, enough for Steve to spot Lucy, the chocolate poodle mix patiently waiting on the floor, her ears flat and tail sweeping back and forth, front paws tapping against the wood slightly as she tries not to move.

"Hey, Lucy," Steve exclaims, dropping into a crouch. "Come here."

As though suddenly released from suffocating bonds, Lucy lunges forward, nearly knocking Steve over in her attempts to get as close to him as possible, whining and nudging and trying to lick his face.

Sam, meanwhile, slowly closes the front door.

"Yeah, it's great to see you, too," he says flatly. "I'm fine, thanks for asking."

Steve just laughs, half at Sam and half at Lucy.

"Good to hear," he says, but Sam smiles, rather than be offended. "How's she been?" Steve barely glances up from Lucy as he continues to rub her ears and avoid her attempted kisses. Sam leans against the wall, arms folded.

"Oh, she's been great," he says dryly. "Has me cater to her every whim, as usual. I'm basically a servant."

Steve chuckles, hugs the dog close in a way that most dogs wouldn't allow. Lucy loves it, though, mostly because Steve has taught her to.

"I missed you, buddy," he whispers, and looks up when Sam breathes a laugh. "What?"

"You do know that you calling this female dog 'buddy' is why people constantly think she's a he?" he points out, not for the first time. Steve _tsk_ s at him.

"Now, Sam," he says. "Let's not be slaves to gender norms."

Sam starts to say something, but cuts himself off with a sigh and a chuckle. Steve is still smiling as Sam makes his way into the apartment. "Come on, then."

Steve obliges, chucking off his jacket and shoes before following his friend, Lucy in tow.

"So what's new?" Sam says, once he's reached the kitchen and is starting up the coffee maker.

"You ask that as though we don't talk almost every day," Steve says, and Sam throws him a look.

"Talking isn't the same as talking," he says. "You've just been dropping off Lucy here a lot lately, and I'm curious as to why. And no―" he says, cutting off Steve as he opens his mouth to assure him that he doesn't have to look after Lucy so much― "I don't mind. I love that dog. I'm just asking."

Steve sighs.

"You know Hammer isn't a fan of dogs," he says, sighing at just the thought of his client, Justin Hammer. "I thought it would be fine, but considering how he tends to just drop by the office whenever he feels like it, I figure it's best to not always have Lucy around."

"But it would help, wouldn't it?" Sam says carefully. "Having her there?"

"Yes, it would," Steve admits sadly, automatically reaching down to scratch Lucy's head, where she sits pressed up against his leg, tail wagging. While well-groomed and brushed daily, she lacks any typical cut or hairstyle, leaving her looking more like a mutt crossed with a small sheep. "But it's just for another week, or so. I'll manage."

Sam hums disapprovingly, eyes on the coffee maker. He's just finished dumping coffee grounds into it, and he flips the switch to turn it on.

"Well," he says, "She misses you as much as you miss her."

Steve makes a face.

"Please don't make this even harder," he says, but Sam just smiles to himself.

"How are _other_ things, then?" he asks. "Aside from work. Which I'm assuming you don't wanna talk about."

Sam assumes correctly.

"Oh, you know me," Steve says with an exhale, pulling out a chair by Sam's small kitchen table and plopping down, Lucy lying down on the floor by his feet. "Social life is thriving." Sam chuckles, but as Steve says it, he finds himself thinking about something in particular. He swallows, hesitates for some reason. He feels almost a little embarrassed, thinking about it in this context. "Actually." He rubs the back of his neck. "You know that coffee shop? Near my office?"

" _Lola_?" Sam says, turning around and leaning back against the counter. Steve nods. "Yeah, I know it. Only been there once, but it was the best americano I ever had."

"Right," Steve says, nodding. "Well, Peggy and I were there last week, and there was this barista."

Sam narrows his eyes.

"Yeah?" he says slowly.

"I kind of said something dumb," Steve says vaguely, gesturing with his hand and glancing away. "But Peggy wouldn't shut up later about him smiling at me because of it."

A slow smile accompanies Sam's narrowed eyes.

"He cute?" he asks slyly.

Steve groans, with a somewhat self-conscious grin.

"Yes," he says. "He is."

"Alright, I'll bite." Sam sounds outright amused now, and he folds his arms over the chest of his U.S. Air Force-branded T-shirt. "What about him?"

"Well, I, uh." Steve chews his cheek. "I kind of saw him again. We talked a bit."

Sam's eyebrows go up in an approving expression.

"Go on," he says.

"It's not a big deal," Steve hurries to say, gesturing nervously. "We just talked."

"Elaborate."

"I stopped by after work, the other night," Steve says, "and he was there. Apparently, he usually works the night shift. And, I don't know, we talked."

"About?" Sam asks patiently.

Steve shrugs.

" _Hellraiser_?" He's not sure why he phrases it like a question, but the silent blink from Sam reminds him of why.

"Okay," Sam says after a moment. "Not what I expected, but okay. How come?"

"Well, he sort of remembered the shirt I was wearing, first time I was there," Steve says, suddenly a little awkward and wondering why the hell he's saying any of this out loud. "It was a _Hellraiser_ one. Turns out, he's also a fan."

He shrugs, and Sam closes his eyes with a shake of his head, a small smile on his lips.

"I know the one," he says. He looks back at Steve. "The one you've said you're gonna throw out for over a year, now."

"First," Steve says, holding a finger up, "I've never said that. Second, it's a great shirt, and it deserves more respect."

"But he remembered it?"

"Yes." Steve revises when he sees Sam's expression. "Hey, no―" he sputters. "He's a fan, okay? You're getting this all wrong."

"Am I?"

"Yes." Sam just makes a doubtful _m-hm_ sound, and Steve sighs. "I'm just saying, I actually talked to someone. A new person. Willingly. About something I actually like, and without embarrassing myself, and they didn't seem to hate me. Which I think is just a good thing, in general. That's all."

He looks down at the kitchen table, runs his fingers along the patterns in the wood. Over on the counter, the coffee maker is done, and Sam brings out two cups from a cupboard.

"I'm just teasing," Sam says, and Steve nods, even though his friend can't see it.

"I know," he says. "I just always feel kind of silly making a big deal out of stuff like this, but―" He shrugs. "It kind of is. Anytime I pull off a decent conversation with a stranger, I feel like I did something huge, when I know I really didn't."

"Hey." Steve turns to Sam, who has stopped mid-motion to look at him. "You did. I can't imagine what it must be like, but it's something you find hard, so you have every right to feel proud when you manage it."

Steve sags a little, can't help the soft smile on his face.

"You're a good friend, you know that?" he says.

"Hell yeah, I do." Sam turns back to pouring the coffee, and Steve scoffs, rolling his eyes, though still smiling.

A few moments later, Sam is joining him at the table, sitting down across from him and offering a steaming cup of coffee. There's a giraffe printed on it, equally dumb and mismatched compared to the polka-dotted one he's drinking from, himself.

They hang out for a while, talking about random stuff for about half an hour, before Sam has to leave for work and Steve needs to head home. Sam has rather flexible hours, working at the VA, and he's heading there early now that Steve let him off babysitting duty early.

"Go home," Sam says, locking the front door behind them as they leave, Lucy at Steve's side, collar and leash on. "Get some sleep."

He thankfully misses the somewhat guilty glance Steve shares with Lucy. He plans on getting some more work done when he gets home, and Lucy knows it.

"Will do," Steve says, turning back to Sam.

They part ways outside the building, and Steve leaves feeling a little lighter than when he arrived, Lucy happily trotting by his side and digging at the few patches of snow still stuck to the edges of the sidewalk. It's getting properly dark now, but it's not a long walk home.

Steve isn't quite sure how he can feel so tired at the end of the day. It's a mental kind of exhaustion; aside from work, being around people always leaves him feeling a little drained. He likes people, though. People themselves aren't really the issue. It's just... a lot.

He plops down on the couch as soon as he gets home, fully intending to get out his sketches and notes from today and try to figure out a way of combining the paisley his client _insists_ on having in his lobby, with the plaid print that he _also_ insists on having in his lobby. Steve hopes there's still time to make him see reason.

But despite the work to be done, Steve ends up just channel surfing for a bit, before landing on a marathon of old _Buffy-_ reruns. He spends a good hour watching it, and is starting to doze off a bit, when a _thump_ is heard from behind him, followed by the quick tapping of claws against the floor.

Steve groans.

"Lucy," he says tiredly, tilting his head back over the edge of the couch's backrest. He can't see the dog, obviously, but he knows she's close. "What did you do?" Silence. "Lucy?"

He makes his tone a little more deliberate, but not reprimanding, and sure enough, Lucy starts slowly shuffling over to the couch from where she was, head hanging and eyes glancing up at Steve. She sits down beside the couch, nudging his knee with her nose, and Steve narrows his eyes.

"I'm not actually mad, you know," he says, but Lucy proceeds to give him her best puppydog eyes, anyway. Steve relents, rubs her ears. "Alright, fine."

He decides to let it slide―it's too late to reprimand once the deed is done, anyway―and instead gets up to deal with whatever caused that noise. Turns out, it's just a pile of laundry, shirts once haphazardly thrown over a chair undoubtedly pulled down when Lucy attempted to get her toy out from the middle of said pile. Steve sighs, squats down to pick up the mess. He finds Lucy's toy among the shirts―a fuzzy frog―and squeezes it once, Lucy perking up at the intriguing squeak it makes _._ Steve offers her the frog, and she takes it, prancing off to chew on it somewhere else.

Steve reminds himself that he really needs to do some laundry, frowns slightly at the sweater he's wearing at the moment―wearing it today was just barely acceptable, to be honest. Whenever he's too preoccupied or stressed out, his surroundings tend to suffer, and while he always makes sure to keep his office neat and tidy, his home is a different matter. Most of the time it's fine, but not when he's too stressed to really think about stuff like doing laundry and cleaning the dead leaves out of the plants in his windows. It usually means a lot of takeout, too. He resolves to get his shit in order once his work for Hammer is done.

He's halfway through the pile when he shakes out a particular shirt, and he stops, just lays it out flat and looks at it. It's the one with the Pinhead print, and Peggy is right, the print is starting to crack. But he can't throw it out―it's his lucky shirt. He has more proof of that now, he thinks, smiling as he gently folds it up and puts it aside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the story slowly gets rolling *eyes emoji* 
> 
> I've written only malec for the past three years, so it's fun to write for another ship tbh (I've loved them for ages, Idk why I'm just now doing this). I hope reading this maybe brightened your day a bit.
> 
> You can find me on [the twitters](https://twitter.com/lemonoclefox)! I'm also a fan of hashtags, so if you feel like talking about this story (or interact just in general, it's awesome either way), you can use _#DGMWfic_. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hi, it's been over a month but here's another chapter. I'm still trying to get back into the writing/posting thing, but there's more coming (hopefully with shorter posting intervals in the future), so bear with me. Thank you for all the lovely feedback so far, enjoy!
> 
> #DGMWfic on the twitters

Steve doesn't bother coming up with an excuse even for himself, as to why he stops by _Lola_ a few days after his last visit. Lucy has once again been left in Sam's care, and at least this is one upside of that; Steve doesn't like leaving her outside when he goes in somewhere, and he wouldn't have been able to stop by the coffee shop now if he'd had her with him. Silver lining, and all that.

He's fully aware that Bucky is most likely working at the moment―it's just past nine p.m.―but it's not until he's right outside the glass door and large windows of the coffee shop that Steve realizes how silly this is. Almost his entire reason for coming here is to see Bucky. He's a little afraid to admit that, even to himself, but he can't help it; Bucky seems nice, and Steve really needs to socialize more. Who knows, this might even be on the verge of making a new friend.

Either way, Steve only has a moment after opening the door to seriously consider leaving before Bucky spots him, and the moment passes far too quickly. Bucky's eyes are suddenly on him, and after a split second of confusion, his face lights up.

"Steve," he says, his voice and expression full of pleased surprise. It makes Steve's stomach stir a little from nerves, and he does his best to hide the genuine shock at this guy actually remembering him, let alone seeming happy to see him.

"Hey," Steve says, thankfully sounding a lot more casual than he feels, as he makes his way over to the counter. Bucky just smiles at him, that look still on his face, until a woman approaches the counter and diverts his attention.

"One second," Bucky murmurs, holding up a finger, and Steve nods as Bucky turns to the customer to take her order. He's is all friendly smiles and easy small-talk―the woman has a three a.m. flight, apparently, and has decided to simply stay up until then, rather than sleep for only a few hours―and Steve can't help but smile a little as he watches the interaction. Bucky is clearly in his element.

Before long, the woman has her order and is sitting down in the corner of the coffee shop with a book, and Bucky blows up his cheeks with an exhale as he turns to Steve.

"Hey," Bucky says, breaking into a smile. He seems to hesitate for a moment, before straightening a bit and leaning with his palms against the counter. "Can I get you anything?"

Steve raises his eyebrows, surprised by the question. Then he remembers that he's in a coffee shop, and that it makes perfect sense for someone working here to assume that he's here as a customer. Even if Steve did, perhaps a little embarrassingly, stop by in an attempt at repeating the other night's success, in terms of casual human interaction.

God, he feels like an idiot.

"Uh," he starts, eyeing the board up on the wall behind the counter. "Yeah."

Bucky waits, chewing his lip impatiently, which Steve doesn't realize until he looks back at him. He offers a sheepish smile, one which Bucky returns with an amused one.

"Coffee?" he asks. Steve inclines his head.

"I don't know," he says, that ease from last time he was here returning a bit. "Maybe I'll go a little crazy, this time."

Bucky makes an intrigued noise.

"I like the sound of that." He straightens up, folds his arms over his chest. It's strange, how some people just pull off an exceedingly average look like this; plain red henley and a black apron. "How crazy?"

Steve presses his lips together, narrows his eyes as he scans the menu.

"You know what," he says, "I think I'll go with a latte."

Bucky's expression is so exaggeratedly baffled that Steve can't help but chuckle.

"Wow, Steve," Bucky says quietly, grabbing a paper cup. "Slow down."

"Gotta live on the edge," Steve explains seriously, and Bucky quirks a smile as he gets to work.

"Decaf?" Steve nods. "Coming right up."

Bucky works in silence for a minute, low music streaming from hidden speakers and filling the place with a soothing, pleasant vibe, only enhanced by the smell of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon. There's some art on the walls, shelves of books, and plants, some of which hang down over the sides like ivy. It would be virtually indistinguishable from any other stereotypical coffee shop, but there's something... genuine about it, Steve thinks. It doesn't feel like it's trying too hard, or trying to fit a certain aesthetic; it feels _elegant_ , for lack of a better word, with warm tones and wood, but smooth surfaces and none of that faux-rustic aesthetic you'll find all over Brooklyn. Like a person _designed_ it, rather than having lifted it from a magazine. Steve likes it, both from a personal and professional standpoint.

"So, uh," Bucky says as he works, making Steve's eyes snap back to him. "How'd the thing go?" Steve frowns, and Bucky half-shrugs a little awkwardly. "The client. The fussy one."

The milk steamer hisses loudly, and Steve smiles a little to himself, as Bucky glances away.

"It's going well," he says, getting out his wallet to pay for his order. "Getting there. I mean, the guy's still insufferable, but I'm almost done."

"Glad to hear it," Bucky says. He focuses very closely on the drink he's preparing for a few moments, before straightening up with a pleased expression. He places the paper cup on the counter, and Steve huffs a laugh when he sees the little leaf in the foam. "You get the art for free." Steve gives him an amused eyebrow-raise. "Okay, come on, I only started getting it right, like, a month ago. Let me have this."

Steve inclines his head, and pays Bucky what he owes.

"It is breathtaking," he admits evenly, and Bucky grunts as he works the cash register.

"Damn right," he says. He glances over his shoulder at the sound of movement in the back room, but dismisses it almost immediately. Steve assumes there's someone else here, too; despite the lack of activity, it just doesn't seem safe to work alone at a place as open as this, at night.

Steve's phone buzzes, and he fishes it out of his pocket. It's a message from Sam, asking Steve to pick up Lucy; he's going out tonight, and Steve promised he'd be by before nine-thirty.

"Shit," he says under his breath, and Bucky is frowning slightly when he looks back up. "I gotta go. But, uh, thank you."

He puts a lid on his cup, and Bucky makes a _go ahead_ kind of gesture.

"No problem," he says, then thinks of something. "Wait."

Steve stops mid-step on his way to turn around, and Bucky gestures at the pastry selection. Steve tilts his head apprehensively.

"I don't―"

"The walnut cookies still have some chewiness left," Bucky says coaxingly, eyebrows raised, and Steve suddenly feels like he'd agree to just about anything Bucky says, right now. He huffs an exhale.

"Yeah," he says. "Sure."

"Steve, you _have_ to tone down that enthusiasm," Bucky says, grabbing a cookie with his tongs and putting it in a paper bag. The cookie is the size of Steve's palm, and he's suddenly very much looking forward to eating it.

"It's a problem," Steve deadpans, and Bucky smiles as he hands him the bag.

"Whatever," he says. "I'm just doing what I can to lure back a paying customer."

"You sure know how to make a guy feel special," Steve says, accepting the cookie and gently putting it in his shoulder bag.

"One of my many talents." Something about Bucky's tone makes Steve look up, but after studying his face for a second, Steve sees nothing there to indicate an innuendo or point of any kind.

 _Of course there isn't,_ Steve thinks. _Idiot._ He's not even interested in Bucky that way, anyway. He's cute as hell, but clearly just being friendly.

"Thanks, Bucky," Steve says, a tired fondness to his voice, and Bucky nods.

"You're very welcome."

Steve doesn't feel awkward at all when he leaves. What a concept.

 

* * *

 

Bucky is already awake when his phone _dings_ with a message, but just barely. Winter sun is streaming in through the blinds over his window, and he groans, rolls over in bed to grab the phone from his nightstand. He opens the notification. It's not really a message, so much as a single poop emoji, from Shuri. He sighs.

 _What_ , he writes, not even bothering with a question mark.

 _I'm hungry,_ Shuri writes. _And bored._

_So?_

_So help. I'll starve._

Bucky rolls his eyes, but fondly, stretches a little as he holds the phone up above him while lying on his back, making sure it doesn't drop on his face.

 _Dramatic,_ he writes. Shuri replies with not one, but four poop emojis, this time. Bucky considers her request for a second. _I'll stop by before work. Keep yourself fed until then._

Another poop emoji appears, in a message bubble of its own. Bucky replies with a single rat, gets a kiss-wink emoji in return, and snorts. He rubs his eyes with a sigh, before dropping his arms back down onto the bed. It's just around eleven a.m.; he got a solid seven hours of sleep. That's something.

Another few taps on his phone, and Bucky exhales at the sound of morning-appropriate tunes filling the empty space of his just-on-the-right-side-of-cluttered bedroom, as he puts the phone back down. Time to get up and face the day.

 

A few hours later, Bucky is on the subway, heading in almost the opposite direction of _Lola._ Shuri's workplace is a bit of a detour, which is why they don't see each other as much since Bucky started working at the little coffee shop. They try to make time when they can, though. Shuri has definitely been one of Bucky's most consistent relationships, through ups and downs and failure and success. He honestly misses her sometimes, though he'd never admit it to her―their sibling-like dynamic alone would have her gloating at such an endearing show of affection.

Bucky leans his head back against the window, gaze drifting out of focus as people step on and off the train. One upside of his odd working hours is that most people are already at work at this time of day, so the subway in general is just less busy, less crowded. Bucky likes that.

He adjusts his head against the window, his pulled-back hair enough in the way for him to give up on getting truly comfortable, and he straightens up again with a sigh. The air in here is stale, like always, and Bucky considers pulling his scarf back up over his mouth, as though that will make a difference. He doesn't, instead just reaches up to scratch a little at his stubble. He used to go completely clean-shaven, but these days he has embraced the scruff―he has been told it suits him, too. Much like when he decided to let his hair grow out, once it reached that awkward length where you either cut it off or patiently wait it out. He doesn't really look at all like he did before, even his style is different, more personal.

A lot is different now than it was two years ago. Almost entirely for the better.

Bucky glances at his phone. He'll have plenty of time to stop by that sandwich shop Shuri likes before heading over to Stark Industries, bring a peace offering to make up for not seeing her in a while.

Even though Bucky tends to stick to the same songs and artists, over and over again, until he gets tired of it and moves on to something else, his music selection is wide and varied. He scrolls through the current playlist, estimates that he'll have another ten minutes or so to kill before his stop, and queues up a couple of songs, before putting the phone back in his pocket. He stuffs his hands in there, too, keeping them warm without getting his gloves out of his bag. Once again, his gaze and attention drift, staring straight ahead. It's only when someone bumps into his knee that he snaps out of it, looking up to see the startled expression of a young guy with a trapper hat. Bucky just gives him a reassuring nod when he apologizes and continues down the train car, Bucky watching him go. He must not be from around here, Bucky thinks. Too polite.

Steve is polite. The thought sneaks up on Bucky as he looks back straight ahead. Polite, friendly. Sweet. Seems sweet, at least. Cute, too. Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, slightly annoyed with himself. He exhales. Thoughts like that never lead anywhere good. And Steve actually seems pretty great in general, regardless of how cute he is. Bucky could see them becoming friends. If Steve is the type to make friends with a night-shift barista, that is, which is already an odd scenario Bucky knows would sound ridiculous if said out loud. But Steve has stopped by twice already in the past couple of weeks, and maybe that's something. Maybe they actually could be friends. Bucky quietly admits that he'd like that.

The sandwich-related pit stop on the way to Stark Industries is a brief one; it's not too crowded, and Bucky knows exactly what Shuri wants. He gratefully accepts the paper bag and two hot drinks, before heading to the sleek, intimidating building less than a block away.

Stark Tower is ostentatious, and smack in the middle of Manhattan, unlike this particular building, though this one s quite the sight to behold, as well. This is where a lot of research is done, in various fields, as well as more office-related work. Tony Stark himself rarely stops by, and Bucky has never actually met him at all.

Bucky knows his way around, has been here several times to visit his friend. Once security lets him through―he has standing permission, thanks to his connection to Shuri―he easily makes his way to the correct floor, slipping through the brightly lit corridors to find Shuri's lab. She has her very own, which she never stops being thrilled about. Bucky can't blame her; Stark Industries is a playground for her, more than a workplace. "Playing" is even how she refers to her work, half the time.

He hears the music before he reaches the lab, muffled through the closed door and windows leading out into the corridor, just low enough to not really be bother to anyone else. He knocks on the door, before simply opening it; Shuri is expecting him, and she's probably too into whatever she's doing to pay attention, anyway.

Sure enough, the young scientist is bobbing her head to the beat of the music, mouthing something under her breath as she closely keeps her eyes on whatever it is she's tinkering with on the lit-up table. Bucky clears his throat obnoxiously, making her look up. There's a brief flash of pleased surprise, before her expression settles into one of mostly false irritation.

"Took you long enough," she says, turning down and looking back down at her work. Bucky says nothing, just places a coffee cup on the table and slides it over, followed by the paper bag. Shuri eyes them both warily, before opening the bag and peeking inside. She breaks into a grin, looking up at Bucky. "Why, hello, favorite person. Please, come in. Sit."

Bucky rolls his eyes with a quirk of a smile, yanking her into a one-armed hug as his other hand holds his own cup.

"I would," he says, releasing Shuri and moving past her, "if you had anywhere to actually sit."

Shuri makes a dismissive _meh_ kind of noise.

"Think outside the box," she says, opening the paper bag properly and fishing out the turkey and cream cheese sandwich inside. She raises a warning finger. "Just don't break anything."

Bucky holds his hands up in a disarming gesture, before looking around for any possible, appropriate spaces to sit down. There's a chair in the corner with a container full of what looks like styrofoam (Bucky is completely certain that's not what it is), and Bucky gingerly lifts the container off, putting it on a nearby counter instead. Shuri doesn't reprimand him for it, so he assumes it was the right call.

"What you working on?" Bucky asks, sitting down and unwrapping his scarf from around his neck. His jacket has already been unbuttoned, and that annoying hot flash of entering a building from the cold winter air has passed. He takes a sip of coffee. It's not quite as good as _Lola'_ s _,_ but he's not about to take a forty-minute detour to bring some of theirs here. And it's decaf, he notes. While he tends to stay away from caffeine, decaf coffee isn't usually his first choice. He can't imagine why he ordered it, this time.

"Science," Shuri says, unwrapping her sandwich. "You wouldn't understand."

Bucky gives her a flat look.

"Ha-ha," he deadpans, Shuri smiling to herself. "Fine, don't tell me. It's probably boring, anyway. Just like everything else you do."

Now it's Shuri's turn to be offended, and she looks up at him.

"Come back when you've added some upgrades to that engineering degree," she says, but there's no real heat behind it―she knows Bucky is only teasing. Bucky nods, smiles wearily.

"Will do," he says. Satisfied, Shuri bites into the sandwich, emitting a sound of complete bliss.

"You are almost forgiven for abandoning me for a month," she says, gesturing at the sandwich, her mouth full.

"Come on," Bucky says, "it has not been a month. Three weeks, tops."

"Three quarters of a month."

Bucky twists his mouth.

"Fair enough," he says. He sips his coffee, leaning back in the chair. It's not a particularly comfortable chair. He's pretty sure Shuri never actually sits down, but rather just uses them as extra surfaces to hold whatever tools or new toys she acquires or comes up with. "Maybe I'm just so intimidated by your skills and knowledge, that I stay away."

Shuri makes a doubtful noise, swallowing a bite of her sandwich. There's already cream cheese smeared on her cheek.

"You have plenty of both of those things," she says magnanimously. "Just less than I do."

"You give amazing pep talks." Shuri just raises her paper cup with a smile, before taking a sip. Chai latte with a shot of espresso―she lets herself be teased for the basic drink choice, despite its modification, and Bucky knows she likes the comfort of it when she's been working hard later in the day. In the morning, she'll go for a red-eye, or a black-eye when she has a deadline to meet.

For such a highly focused and simultaneously easily distracted person, Shuri is great at multi-tasking. Bucky watches her flit around the lab while they talk, about nothing and everything, discussing their favorite shows (it's been so long that they have several weeks' worth of them to catch up on) and theories about where the storylines may go next.

Bucky does miss this, he does. Shuri is one of the few people in his life who takes no shit from him, calls him out when he deserves it, and supports him when he needs it. He's incredibly grateful to her―and it doesn't hurt that they get along so well.

It's not until around six-thirty that Bucky has to go, wanting a proper margin to start his shift on time.

"You're staying?" he asks, shrugging on his jacket and wrapping his scarf back around his neck. His paper cup has been emptied, and now lies at the bottom of the trashcan next to his chair.

"Yes," Shuri says, measuring something and making a face, before swiping something away from one of her many screens. She tends to stay long after everyone else has left the building. "Science never sleeps."

"But _you_ should."

Shuri glares at him.

"Pot, kettle," she says, and Bucky looks away, a little self-consciously. Shuri's expression becomes a little more careful, then, less easy and relaxed. "When are you coming back to work?"

The question is innocent enough, but it's a charged one, one she hasn't asked in a while.

"I'm here, aren't I?" Bucky gingerly holds out his hand to touch what looks like a thin metal rod balanced on another, only to have his hand slapped away.

"You're pretty, you can afford to be stupid," Shuri says. "But you aren't stupid. You know what I mean."

Bucky makes a petulant face, sighing as he needlessly rubs his slapped hand.

"I don't know," he says, continuing his last, slow gander around the lab. "I barely even had time to start working here, to begin with, I don't even know if they'd take me back."

Shuri stops mid-motion to give him a flat look. It's fascinating; nineteen years old and still able to level any grown-ass adult with a glare, if she wants to.

"They asked you to come back the moment you left hospital," she says pointedly. "You wanted time, they gave you time. It's been two years, and they'd still want you back."

"I'm not exactly indispensable," Bucky says dryly.

"No." Shuri's reply is blunt, honest. "But they like you. And you were good at your job." She gestures at him with her tool. "False modesty doesn't suit you. Come back to work."

 _Easy for you to say,_ Bucky thinks to himself, perhaps a little unfairly. Shuri―despite the privilege of being the sister of a powerful diplomat―was plucked out of Wakanda at sixteen solely because Tony Stark was so impressed with her skills that he _insisted_ she come work for his company, at least for a few years. She accepted Stark's offer on the condition that she get free rein and access to anything she might need to do said work, which she didn't expect him to agree to. But he did, gladly, and was honestly maybe a little too happy about her making such demands. He sees more of himself in her than he'd like to admit, Bucky knows that much.

In short, Shuri has the passion, the intelligence, works hard. She really is indispensable. Bucky? Not so much. He was little more than an intern when he started here, and didn't have the chance to get much further than that before the accident.

"I appreciate the confidence." He can't help but sound tired, and he makes sure to sound grateful, as well. "I just don't know if I can, just yet."

 _Or if I even want to,_ he thinks.

Shuri's expression turns understanding.

"Well," she says. "When you're done with your Starbucks sabbatical, we'll be here."

Bucky smiles, circles back around her on his way to the door.

"Aw, thanks, Space Buns," he says, giving the back of her neck a quick squeeze with a pincer grip as he walks by, making Shuri bat him away with what Bucky has learned are various curses in Xhosa, though he can't quite make them out. He knows it's deliberate; she never accidentally slips into her native language, only does it when she wants to make a point or emphasize something―or insult someone without them knowing.

"Don't hate me just because you can only pull off the one bun," she reprimands, tugging on his pulled-back hair and making him wince. "Now, go. And don't take so long to come visit, next time."

She shoves him lightly toward the door, Bucky giving her an exaggeratedly affectionate smile, to which she responds by flipping him off. He mimes catching it in midair and clutching it to his chest as he backs away. Shuri just shakes her head with a grin and turns back to her work, an expression that Bucky can't help but mirror as he leaves the lab and heads back down the corridor outside.

 

* * *

 

Steve cannot wait for this project to be over. Justin Hammer is insufferable, with his complete lack of originality and charm, yet an abundance of confidence that he has both, and Steve is happy to be done with him in a few days. At least he managed to talk him out of that paisley-idea.

At the moment, he can't seem to turn off his brain, nonetheless. He went for a run with Lucy, and now he's in bed, his tablet propped up on his knees, reading a book he bought on impulse a few weeks ago. It's bland, but vaguely interesting, and he's honestly just hoping it will lull him off to sleep if he reads it for long enough.

After well over an hour, though, he leans his head back against the headboard with a sigh.

"Maybe I should get some work done," he thinks out loud, itching to work on the sketches lying on the coffee table out in the living room. He doesn't get the chance to work on stuff for fun, very often, but it's always where his mind goes when he's not entirely focused on work. He also knows he should slow down a bit, though. Not constantly keep busy. He turns to Lucy, who's spread out on the bed, beside him. "What do you think, girl?"

He says it quietly, but Lucy seems to sense that it's directed at her, and opens her eyes. She lazily pats her tail against the bed, before shuffling closer and  firmly placing her head on his stomach, looking up at him with those brown, intelligent eyes. Steve swears that she understands everything he's saying, sometimes. He can't imagine how else she'd be able to pull off such a deliberate, almost exasperated look.

"What?" he says.

Lucy huffs, twitches slightly, as though impatient. When Steve just frowns at her, she instead emits an impatient whine and shoves her nose in his armpit, making him huff in surprise and then immediately break into laughter, which makes Lucy wag her tail and move up to lick his chin, instead.

"Alright, alright." Steve chuckles, rubbing her head and gently pushing her eager kisses away from his face. "I get it. Sleep. Good call."

A man of his word, he puts the tablet aside and shuts off the lights, burrowing down under the covers, as Lucy immediately falls back asleep.

Steve doesn't really sleep, though. Instead, he ends up tossing and turning for another forty-five minutes, Lucy eventually growing tired of it and hopping off the bed, settling down on the couch in the living room, instead. Steve sighs in frustration, and glances at the clock. It's nearing one a.m., and he's still wide awake. He doesn't usually handle that well; instead of doing something productive or simply distracting himself entirely until he finally gets sleepy, he tends to stay in bed, waiting for sleep that never comes and growing steadily more stressed about it, by the minute. Drawing and sketching on that never-ending, vague passion project of his will only rile him up, he knows.

He could go outside, he thinks. Go for a walk. Maybe stop by a 7-Eleven.

Or a coffee shop.

Steve covers his face with his hands, huffing out a sigh. That would be ridiculous. He can't just latch on to anyone he's inexplicably comfortable with, especially not someone who small-talks for a living, aside from making coffee. But Bucky is nice. And Steve is comfortable around him, and that's rare, and Bucky seems to like being around him, too. Which is even rarer, in Steve's mind―the mindset of constantly being an annoying burden is a hard one to shake, even though he rationally knows it's not true.

Steve glances at the time again. It's a fifteen-minute walk to _Lola_ , he'd be there about an hour before Bucky's shift ends. If he's even working tonight, at all. But Steve can't see why he wouldn't be, it's Thursday.

Steve deliberates for another few minutes, before deciding that he has nothing to lose. He gets out of bed and throws on some clothes, glancing back at a sleeping Lucy, before heading out the door and locking it behind him.

There's a strange thrill in his chest as he steps out onto sidewalk, heading in the direction of _Lola._ He could never have imagined doing something like this a couple of years ago, not even six months ago, really. It helps having a destination, an appealing one. Even if Bucky does find him annoying and is only being polite, at least going to see him seems to be the boost Steve needs to just... do something. Even if it is just taking a walk, risking interaction with people, especially at night. But the streets aren't empty, and the lights are on. Steve has a good feeling about it.

Just like last time, he realizes what a dumb idea it is, the moment he gets there. The cold night air has revived him and brought him back to his senses, it seems, and he actually slows to a stop down the street from the coffee shop. The sign sitting on the sidewalk outside those large, welcoming, warm windows can be seen from here, and Steve shifts his weight where he stands. He feels ridiculous. He always does this, whenever he gets a burst of motivation and courage to go against his usual fears and just _get out there_ ―literally―he gets halfway and then feels that fear creep back in, all those anxieties gnawing at his bones until he can't stand it and practically runs back to safety.

But he's here. He thinks of all the exercises, all the tools he's learned and how to use them. There's nothing to be afraid of. Worst case scenario, Bucky thinks he's weird for stopping by, or maybe isn't even there, at all. That's the worst that could happen, right now. Steve feels an odd twitch in his leg, as though trying to take a step forward but just falling short.

 _You've come all this way,_ he rationalizes. It would be a waste to turn back now.

Steve takes a deep breath, and starts walking.

He's not sure how he gets from the sidewalk to inside the coffee shop, but suddenly he's there, hearing the door fall shut behind him, and an uncomfortable tension grips behind his ribs. He slowly takes off his gloves, determined to stay for a minute. He'd _really_ look like an idiot if he left, now.

"Uh." The guy behind the counter says is someone Steve doesn't recognize. _Worst case scenario_ , a voice screeches in his head, before he tells it to calm the fuck down. Maybe this is for the best, maybe it's a good thing that Bucky won't be here to see him stop by again for no reason, less than a week after he last did. The guy behind the counter starts for the back room, but turns back to Steve. "You a customer, right?"

Steve blinks. It seems like a genuine question, the guy pointing at him with a friendly, expectant expression. Steve nods.

"Cool, cool." The guy turns to the door leading to the back room, raises his voice a bit. "Hey! We got a customer."

"You work here, Luis," someone calls from the back, slightly irritated, and Steve takes a deep breath. It's Bucky. Suddenly the nerves kick right into gear again.

"Come on, man," the guy pleads. "You know I'm more of a pastry guy. I never gotta make coffee."

"That's because pastry-duty only involves moving things from one tray to another tray." Bucky's reply becomes louder as he makes his way from the back room through the door, which he pushes open. "And you never have to make coffee because someone _else_ is always making coffee."

"Exactly!"

Bucky sighs.

"Alright, just―" He cuts himself off as he turns to take the order of the customer his co-worker is referring to, and blinks when he sees Steve. He breaks into a slow grin. "Hey."

Steve smiles back, on instinct.

"Hi," he says. Just like that, his nerves loosen and melt away, at least for the most part. Like magic.

"You're out late," Bucky says, glancing at the clock for good measure. It's just past one now, and Steve nods.

"Yeah," he says. "Couldn't sleep." He adds a shrug, as though to make it more casual and believable, despite it not being a lie, at all. Bucky nods sympathetically, lips pressed together.

"And you come here," he says, a hand to his chest. "I'm flattered."

Steve, feeling a flush creeping up his neck, doesn't even hesitate.

"I'm just here for the service," he says, to which Bucky responds with a narrow-eyed look, but there's no heat behind it.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows against the counter. He winces slightly as he does it. "Well, then can I get you anything?"

Steve nods, taking a deep breath as he approaches the counter. Another good thing about coming here at night is that there are no people. Which isn't all too surprising, given the hour, but it still makes him feel a little better about this whole thing, to be honest. At the moment, there are only three people sitting at a table in the corner, silently working on laptops and only occasionally talking to each other. College students, Steve guesses. They have that exhausted look about them, and he doesn't envy their situation; he spent most of his college years working hard and long hours, and he doesn't really miss it.

"Yeah," Steve says, frowning in thought, browsing the many options on the menu up on the wall. "Tea."

Bucky sucks a breath in through his teeth, shaking his head.

"You gotta calm down, man," he says, straightening up and grabbing a paper cup. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear, the rest of it up in its usual bun. "First a latte, now this?"

He _tsk_ s, and Steve just shrugs. Bucky snorts, and Steve feels dizzy from how easily he draws that kind of reaction out of him.

"Fine," Bucky says. "What kind of tea?"

Steve considers it for a second.

"Surprise me," he says. Bucky narrows his eyes.

"Alright," he says, in an intrigued, surprised kind of tone. "You got it." He starts for the tea selection, before catching himself and gesturing at his co-worker, who's currently looking at something on his phone. "Oh, this is Luis. Technically a barista, but has other strong points, instead. Luis, this is Steve."

Luis looks up, just as Steve spots his nametag.

"Aw, hey man," he says, with a smile and a hand raised in greeting. The hand lowers to reach for Steve's over the counter. "Good to meet you."

Steve glances down at his hand, and takes it when he realizes that Luis wants an actual handshake.

"You, too."

"Right, right," Luis says, nodding quickly, all smiles. He seems to be a quick speaker, too. "Yeah, Buck's mentioned you."

"Just once," Bucky interjects tiredly. "Because you asked who was here, that time."

Steve nods, eyebrows raised as he turns to Bucky, putting his hands in his pockets.

"I didn't realize we were at the tell-your-friends level of acquaintance," he says easily, outwardly not at all put-off by Luis's comment. Inwardly, his reaction may a bit more excited.

"Hey, I've given you baked goods," Bucky says with a frown. He holds up two fingers. "Twice. For free." He shrugs. "I'd say we're there, by now."

Steve chuckles.

"Fair enough," he says. Bucky smiles at him and gets to work, while Steve waits, silently thrilled that he has apparently made a friend, after all.

 

* * *

 

Steve stays for a while. It was Bucky's idea, really, to sit down rather than just stand around, talking by the counter. Steve seemed a little hesitant, at first, but Bucky's worries about it not being a good idea were soothed when Steve decided to take him up on the offer. And now, here they are, sitting across from each other by the large windows facing the icy sidewalk outside, Steve with his tea and Bucky fiddling with a napkin to keep his hands busy.

"This is good," Steve says, frowning at the cup. It has cooled enough now for him to take a few sips. "What is it?"

"Pomegranate-raspberry," Bucky replies. "We've got some really good blends, here."

"That's nice," Steve says, and he sounds like he means it. "A lot of coffee shops don't bother with much aside from, well, coffee."

Bucky quirks a smile.

"Yeah," he says. "We like to give people options."

Steve doesn't reply to that, just smiles as he takes another sip.

It's a quiet, mostly wordless interaction, but it's enough to keep Bucky mostly distracted from the pain intermittently slicing through his shoulder. Mostly. It seems that his arm is just having _a day_ , when his nerves sometimes just decide to set themselves on fire for no reason, a day when it's almost impossible to ignore the dull burn. He resists the urge to rub it too much; it doesn't actually do anything to relieve the pain, is more of a placebo thing, and Steve will probably end up asking about it if Bucky does it too much. Bucky absently tugs on his sleeves instead, as though they'll suddenly ride up along his arms, revealing something that he's not ashamed of, but just doesn't feel like talking about just yet.

Steve has taken off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, his knitted scarf neatly folded on top of it. He's not wearing a particular shirt, this time, just a regular, long-sleeved sweater. It looks good on him, though; slight v-neck, cozy and soft, a pleasant forest green.

"Why do you work nights?" he asks, and Bucky tilts his head, a little surprised by the out-of-nowhere question.

"Not sure," he says, before revising. "I mean, I guess it just kind of started that way. I needed a job, and I couldn't sleep, so I started working here part-time, taking the shift that no one wanted. And it just kind of stuck." He shrugs. "But I like it. It's quiet."

Steve nods slowly.

"Makes sense," he says. He looks down, running his fingers along the edge of the paper cup in his hands. The tea is almost all gone, now. "I work alone, generally. That's quiet, too. It's nice."

"Yeah," Bucky says, recalling their first conversation. "Interior design, right?"

Steve looks up, as though surprised he remembered.

"Yeah," he says. "Mostly for companies, not so much creative stuff."

"Still," Bucky says. "You like it?"

"I do," Steve says, but he sounds a little apprehensive, and he leans back in his chair. "I like working with a theme or an idea, trying to fit together all the details the client wants."

Bucky senses that there's more to it, and he lowers his head a little bit to catch Steve's wandering gaze.

"But?" he prompts, and Steve sighs.

"But," he says, "there are limitations. I don't get a lot of free rein, with most clients. I'd like to really just... dig into it, sometimes. Have fun with it. Get to do what _I_ like, rather than what someone else wants. Which I guess sort of contradicts what this kind of job is about, but..." He trails off with a shrug.

"I get that," Bucky says, now starting to slowly tear up the crumpled napkin in his hands, without looking. He rolls his shoulders a bit, which he instantly regrets when a stab of pain makes him wince. "We all have our things."

"What's your thing?" Steve asks, after a moment or two. Bucky just looks at him for a second, deliberating. He ends up just glancing down at the table, crumpling up the ripped napkin into tiny little balls.

"Not coffee," he says lightly, a little dryly, in an attempt to evade. He sweeps the napkin remains to the side, and when he looks up, there's an odd expression on Steve's face. He looks as though he's waiting for Bucky to continue, but decides not to push it when he doesn't.

"Well," he says, with an exhale, "at least you _make_ good coffee."

Bucky smiles at that, folding his arms over his chest as he leans back in his chair. It makes the slightest noise when it scuffs half an inch across the floor with the movement.

"I'll take it," he says. Steve smiles back, and they maintain eye contact for a few surprisingly comfortable seconds, until the door opens, bringing in a swift gust of cold air. It makes Bucky shiver, but it settles the moment the door closes again, and he frowns when he sees who just entered.

"Hey," he greets her. "I thought you had a thing?"

"I did," Wanda says, lifting her long, auburn hair from underneath her scarf, letting it fan out over her back and shoulders. "And now it's done."

"But―" Bucky glances at the clock on the wall; it's five to two. Wanda is taking over after his shift, and he was not expecting her just yet. He blinks. Has it really already been an hour since Steve arrived?

"Are you alright?" Wanda asks when she sees the slightly confused look on Bucky's, brow furrowed. Her Sokovian accent is still quite obvious, but it has improved greatly since she started working here, Bucky knows. Just since _he_ started, her English has gotten a lot better, thanks to both daily practice and the classes she takes a couple of times a week. It has made her more confident, too, more relaxed around strangers.

"Yeah," Bucky says, nodding. He absently rubs his left palm with his thumb―the pain has started creeping down along his arm and into his hand over the course of the day, spiking up every now and then―and meets Steve's eye across the table. His eyebrows are raised in question. "Lost track of time, I guess."

Steve smiles a little, something softly surprised about his expression.

"Yeah," he says. "It happens."

By that, Bucky assumes, he means that it just happened to him, as well.

"Okay," Wanda says. She starts unbuttoning her long, red coat, heading for the back room. "I'll be right back."

She throws Steve a small smile of greeting, which he returns, before she disappears through the door behind the counter.

"That's Wanda," Bucky says, and Steve turns back to him.

"She looks familiar," Steve muses, brow slightly furrowed. Bucky thinks about it for a second, remembering.

"She was working that morning," he says, pointing at Steve. "When―"

 _When we met?_ Is that the right way to put it? It makes it sound so official, important, like Steve wasn't just a customer in a line of other customers waiting for his morning coffee. Even if Bucky did remember his shirt. And his slight fumble when he made his order, which kind of brightened Bucky's morning a bit.

"When you were on an apparently rare morning shift?" Steve finishes for him, and Bucky exhales a laugh. Clearly, Steve isn't as awkward about any of this as he is. Which is kind of nice.

"Right, yeah," he says, nodding. "She usually does late shifts, gives her time to do some schoolwork. She's doing an exchange thing with the college she goes to, so she feels like she needs to work twice as hard. But she tends to fill in here when it's needed, anyway."

"Sounds like a good kid," Steve says.

"She is." Bucky cocks his head. "Also, the word 'kid' makes me feel like we're forty."

Steve laughs then, properly, averting his eyes as he does it but still unabashed. It lights up his face, which in turn makes Bucky smile.

"Not quite yet," Steve says, turning back to him. "Not for another thirteen years."

Bucky nods slowly.

"Twelve for me," he says, weirdly relieved that they're actually the same age, like he assumed. Even if it does make him feel a little more self-conscious; barista seems like a vaguely embarrassing job to have when you're over twenty-five. At least that's what he's been told. "Still, though."

Steve huffs a laugh, looks down at his tea. He takes a sip, then another, and they don't really talk as he finishes the rest. Bucky doesn't interrupt. His shift is over, but he doesn't want to be rude and just up and leave right now, or indirectly kick Steve out.

Though, there's nothing saying he wouldn't stay. It's not like he's here to see Bucky, specifically. Even if Bucky really does like it when he stops by.

"Aren't you done working, for the night?" Steve asks after a minute, gesturing at the clock on the wall. It's now ten past two.

"Yeah," Bucky says, rubbing his arm in a gesture that's now more nervous, than anything. "I'm gonna head home, in a minute."

Steve nods, seems a little lost for a moment, before he takes a breath.

"Yeah, me too," he says. "I think I might be able to actually fall asleep now."

"I'm glad," Bucky says, and he means it.

Steve sticks around for a minute until Bucky is ready to leave, which he really doesn't have to do, but which Bucky appreciates all the same. He says goodbye to Luis and Wanda, and soon enough, he finds himself out on the sidewalk, face-to-face with Steve.

"I'm going that way," Steve says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, and Bucky nods, somehow a little disappointed.

"And that's me," he says a little ruefully, gesturing behind him. Steve nods, breathes a chuckle. "Um," Bucky says, eloquently. He shoves his hands in his pockets, absently realizes that he's forgotten to prepare his headphones. He'll do it when Steve's gone; he doesn't want to seem rude by doing it now. "I guess I'll see you?"

Steve nods, with a small smile.

"Sure," he says, slowly starting to move backwards. "You can surprise me again, next time."

Bucky can't help but smile even wider, and nods.

"Sounds good." He glances over his shoulder, a casual indicator that he's about to leave. "Well, goodnight, Steve."

Steve raises his hand in an almost-wave.

"Goodnight, Bucky."

With that, he turns around and leaves, walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, and Bucky only lets his eyes linger on him for a second, before turning around and heading home. He digs his headphones out of his bag, ignoring the cold nipping at his fingers. He has a feeling he'll sleep a little easier, tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bros being bros being bros.
> 
> Find me on [the twitters](https://twitter.com/lemonoclefox)! You can also use _#DGMWfic_ there if you feel like talking about this thing. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Wednesday (I say, as though that matters), and I have a new chapter for you. And thanks for all the lovely feedback so far! I'm still getting comfortable writing for this fandom and these characters, but it's coming along.
> 
> #DGMWfic on twitter

"Jesus," Steve exclaims when Natasha lands a particularly hard punch. He lowers his arm and shakes it out a little bit, annoyed that he didn't brace himself properly. "Give a guy a little warning."

"Can't handle it, Rogers?" she asks, a cheeky smile on her face. She does cheeky very well.

"Alright, don't be like that," Steve says, but Natasha just laughs. "Just give me a heads-up next time."

Natasha watches him for a moment, then her smile fades as she frowns, tilts her head. She says nothing for a few seconds, breathing heavily from exertion as she eyes Steve up and down, relaxing her stance. And _oh no,_ Steve knows that look. It's the one that always manages to pierce through whatever front you try to put up, and it never gets any less unsettling and annoying.

"Something's up with you," Natasha says. Steve shakes his head innocently.

"No, there isn't," he says, straightening a little and loosening his shoulders.

"Yes, there is."

"No."

"Yes." Natasha's eyebrows go up in a doubtful expression, and Steve just glares at her, before letting out a sigh.

"I'm just a little distracted," he says. "Just a client being difficult. And I haven't been sleeping great. It's not a big deal."

"Is it Sleazebag Hammer? I thought that project was done."

"It is," Steve confirms vaguely. He raises his focus mitts again in an attempt to distract Natasha with the promise of more violence, but she isn't so easily deterred.

"Steve," she says, wiping her forehead with the back of her gloved hand. Her red hair has started coming loose from its ponytail, strands of it sticking to her sweaty skin. "I've seen you busy, I've seen you tired, and you're a shitty liar. What's up?"

She puts her hands on her hips, patiently watching Steve, who eventually just sighs and lowers his hands.

The gym is active and loud around them, but not too much so, and everyone is too into their own workout to pay any attention to whatever conversations anyone else might be having. Still. Steve hates coming here. Not the working out part―he loves getting his blood pumping, especially with the kind of combat-focused workout that Natasha favors. No, it's the gym itself. The public openness of it, people all around and watching Steve's every move, waiting and judging and making him sweat from sheer anxiety.

It doesn't matter that he intellectually knows that's not the case. No one cares what he's doing. Hell, he even looks like he fits right in; he may not be ripped, but he can hold his own, muscles nice and visible when he moves. In a just slightly above-average kind of way, he likes to think. He mostly works out for his health.

But it doesn't matter. The only thing keeping him from running out of here at any time is Natasha and her steady, stubborn support. She sets up a workout for him, and they go through it together―Steve isn't allowed to leave until it's done. It works pretty well. It gives him a frame of reference, and lets someone else take the lead, which helps a lot with his anxiety.

Natasha is a hard-ass, but a loving softie at heart, and Steve counts himself incredibly lucky to have her as a friend.

"I'm not lying," Steve says. "It really isn't a big deal. There's just... a lot, lately."

"Like what?" Natasha asks, rolling her shoulders a bit and gesturing at Steve to raise the mitts again. Steve complies, more prepared for her assault, this time.

"I don't know," he says, meeting Natasha's two quick blows with ease. "There's always something."

He doesn't want to admit the real reason behind most of his current distractedness; Bucky. It's stupid. He just doesn't do well with shaking things up like that, even if it's in a good way. Like he's been talking to Bucky, a stranger. Like they're... friends. Or something. Almost.

Natasha waits for him to elaborate, and simply shrugs with a sigh when he doesn't.

"Fine," she says. "Don't tell me." She throws another two quick punches, which reverberate slightly through Steve's arms. For such a small person, she packs a lot of power. "But, you know, I'm here for you and all that."

Steve chuckles.

"Thanks," he says. "I know."

Another affectionate smirk from Natasha, and the matter is tabled for now. She's easy to talk to, like that. There's no forcing of communication or vulnerability; they both know where they have each other, should they need it.

"So, I have a question," Natasha says a minute or so later, continuously out of breath. "How well do you know Tony?"

Steve frowns.

"Tony Stark?" he asks, and Natasha nods, throwing another three punches in quick succession. "I don't know. I mean, we were sort of friends back in college, but I haven't really spoken to him in a while."

"How long while?"

Steve shrugs. "A few years? Why?"

"There's a thing," Natasha says. She gestures, revises. "He's throwing a thing. It's this big charity thing in a few weeks, and I've got an invite with a plus-one."

Steve's eyebrows rise.

"And how'd that happen?" he asks.

"Work," she says. "I know someone who knows someone, and now I'm working with Stark for a bit. Well, with the company. Sort of."

"Okay," Steve says, taking another few punches, choosing not to ask any further questions, at the moment; Natasha is definitely the secretive type. He may also be a little distracted by how his arms are starting to get tired, though he'll never admit that to her, unprompted. "What does that have to do with me and whether I know Tony?"

"Just curious," Natasha says. "And like I said, I got an invite." She shrugs. "Figured you might wanna be my plus-one. I could use someone to keep me sane during the whole thing."

"Or, you could just not go," Steve suggests dryly. "If it's that bad."

Natasha frowns.

"And miss out on the fancy food and champagne? I don't think so."

"Right," Steve says with a nod. Natasha throws another few punches, but she's clearly getting tired, too. Though she won't admit that, either. "So you want me to go with you so you can get free food."

She smirks, rolls her shoulders.

"You know me so well, Rogers." She cocks her head. "And honestly, it'll be nice to wear something other than a pantsuit or workout gear, for once." Steve raises his eyebrows teasingly, and she gives him a tired look. "I can fight to crush the patriarchy and still be feminine, thank you very much."

Steve laughs.

"I never would have suggested otherwise."

Natasha huffs a laugh.

"So what do you say?" she says. "Wanna go on a totes platonic date with me?"

"No offense," Steve says, "but I can't imagine seeing you in any way that _isn't_ platonic." Natasha punches him in the arm this time, but there's very little force behind it, and Steve huffs a startled laugh. "And yes, I'd love to go with you."

"Great." She raises her arms and steadies herself for another few punches, but almost immediately relaxes. "You know what, I can tell you're beat, let's call it a day."

"Oh, I'm the one who's beat?" Steve says flatly, pulling the focus mitts off of his hands, leaving his palms feeling nice and clammy in the open air.

"Are you implying that I'm a liar?" Natasha says innocently, removing her gloves.

"I'm implying that you're full of shit."

"Steven, I am hurt that you would even say that," she says seriously. "You owe me a smoothie." She starts making her way toward the juice and snack bar in the other room, and throws over her shoulder, "The fancy kind."

Steve just scoffs, smiling and shaking his head as he follows.

 

* * *

 

Steve always feels a little guilty about being relieved when he's in between projects. Freelancing has its upsides―more pros than cons, in Steve's opinion―but it also means having to constantly be on your toes, in terms of work. There's no monthly income, everything is on a project-by-project basis, and sometimes finding a client who has realistic expectations and also knows the value of the work can feel impossible. Freelancing is less relaxing, on those occasions.

But right now, Steve has a little time off, by choice. He finished up his project for Hammer quicker than expected, which left him with a great review―which in turn is great in itself, because Hammer might be a dick, but at least his word means something to a lot of people. He was even decent enough to hire guys to help Steve carry and organize the furniture and decor needed to remake his lobby, which not every client does. Then again, it was mostly just because he was afraid Steve would break all his expensive stuff, Steve is pretty sure.

With all that in mind, Steve isn't sure why he's here, at the office, past one in the morning. He didn't mean to, he really didn't. He just couldn't sleep and went for a walk to get that book he's been meaning to read, for lack of anything else, the cheap spy novel he'd left at the office a week earlier. Then he glanced at a blueprint while he was there and found something he wanted to change, just real quick. And then another thing, and another, and now well over an hour has passed. Steve sighs. He always does this.

He's not worried about Lucy; she manages just fine for a couple of hours. Especially at this time of night, when all she does is sleep, anyway.

It's when Steve gets ready to finally leave that he really takes a long, hard look at what time it actually is, his sleep-deprived brain working through it, that he jerks up. It's a quarter to two. It takes him another second or two to put together why that stresses him out.

Bucky's shift ends at two.

He wasn't planning on stopping by _Lola,_ he really wasn't, much like he wasn't planning on staying at the office this long, in the first place. But knowing that Bucky's shift ends in a matter of minutes somehow gives him a sense of urgency―like he has to take this presented opportunity―and he hurries out of his office and into the elevator.

Steve is exhausted, but he actually walks pretty damn quickly through the cold as he heads for the coffee shop, not even thinking about how dumb this is. How dumb he'll undoubtedly feel once he arrives. Doesn't seem that important, right now.

Bucky smiles in recognition when Steve eventually practically stumbles through the door, then frowns when he sees the state he's in.

"Dude, you okay?" he asks. He's not behind the counter for once, Steve notes. Instead, he's in the middle of wiping down a table, and somehow, seeing him anywhere than behind the counter always reminds Steve that he's a real person, and not just a figment of Steve's tired, night-mode brain.

"Yeah," Steve says, a little out of breath, and then blurts, "Just didn't wanna be too late."

"For what?" Bucky asks, frowning. Steve hesitates at that, unsure how to reply.

"Uh," he settles on, gesturing with a gloved hand. The contrast from outside to inside is stark, and he's already sweating underneath his coat. He ends up just motioning toward the counter, and Bucky looks over his shoulder, before turning back to Steve with a small smile.

"It's a 24/7 place," he says pointedly. "It's not like you'd be locked out if you showed up ten minutes from now."

"No, but―" Steve clears his throat, tells himself that it's just the dry air. He suddenly feels very silly. Very dumb, just like she should have expected. "Not as fun without you here."

He says it with way more relaxed aloofness than he expected, almost like he's joking, and Bucky narrows his eyes at him. Steve hopes he didn't make it weird. Then Bucky's smile widens, and he glances at the floor, nodding. He tosses the rag he's holding back and forth between his hands.

"And here I thought you just liked our coffee," he says easily, looking back up. He raises his eyebrows, and Steve cocks his head, making a so-so gesture with his hand. Bucky huffs a laugh, grinning. "Come on, then."

He makes his way over to the counter, and Steve exhales a breath of relief. Weirdness avoided.

"I'm off in a few minutes," Bucky says as he gets a paper cup and plops it down on the counter. "But I'll whip something up for you before I go." He gives Steve an expectant look. "Decaf?"

Steve nods, and Bucky points at him, before getting to work. Steve watches him for a second, before turning to look around the room, instead. As usual, it's almost entirely empty, save for two people―each sitting alone, on opposite sides of the room.

"So, do you just sleep during the day?" Steve asks, turning back to Bucky, who cocks his head. He doesn't seem to question Steve just slipping right back into what they touched upon, last time.

"Sort of," he says, preparing the drink. "This job isn't glamorous, but it beats just sitting around and stressing over not being able to sleep." He finishes up the order and holds up a plastic lid in question. Steve nods, and Bucky presses it down onto the paper cup. "So yeah, sleeping during the day is a little easier, for some reason. Not ideal, but easier. Though I might phase over into day shifts, eventually. We'll see."

Steve remembers him mentioning how he liked the night shift, that it's quiet. He can imagine it can get boring too, though.

Bucky offers a small smile as he hands Steve the coffee, exchanging it for some cash.

"I get it," Steve says, while Bucky works the register. "I mean, it comes and goes for me, but for weeks at a time, it's like sleep is an impossible concept. Hence, being at the office at two a.m.."

_And walking all the way here from home, last time._

Bucky throws him a glace, before looking back down and counting his change.

"Yeah," he says, quietly. He hands Steve the change, which Steve immediately puts in the tip jar. Bucky offers a smile. If Steve didn't know better, he'd say it looks fond.

The blanket of stillness that envelops this place is broken by the sound of the door opening. Steve turns, and spots a flustered-looking guy enter from the street, shaking some snow out of his hair. It must have started and then stopped snowing within just the past few minutes, tiny flakes briefly falling from the dark sky. Steve isn't a fan; spring is on its way, they're already over a week into March.

"'Sup, Lang," Bucky drawls, and the guy looks up.

"Good evening, James," he says with exaggerated formality, earning a groan from Bucky, which in turn makes the guy chuckle in a distinctly self-satisfied way.

"Hey, I thought Pete was coming in?" Bucky says.

"He was," Lang says, unzipping his jacket. "Last-minute switch. He's got an exam tomorrow afternoon, figured I'd help out and give him some extra hours of sleep. That kid needs to wind down a bit."

Bucky nods understandingly.

"Can't turn off the dad-setting, huh?" he says.

"Wouldn't want to." Lang starts heading for the back room, and throws Steve an upwards nod and a friendly smile in greeting on the way. "Hey, man." Steve answers with a lame, slightly surprised wave, before the guy disappears from sight.

Bucky sighs, untying his apron. "And so my watch is ended."

Steve huffs a laugh.

"I'll leave you to it," he says, raising his cup.

"You heading home?" Bucky asks, folding up the apron in his hands. Steve makes a face, tilts his head.

"Yeah," he says. "I was only gonna go do a quick thing at the office and just... ended up staying too long. Wide awake now. I'll just find some reruns to watch till I fall asleep."

Bucky gives him an odd look, before nodding. He looks down at the apron in his hands, then pauses right as he starts for the back room.

"Hey, uh," he says. He tucks a stray tuft of hair behind his ear, the rest up in its usual bun, before looking up at Steve. "You wanna get something to eat?" Steve is certain that his utter surprise is written all over his face, because Bucky pulls back a little. "I mean, if we're both gonna stay up anyway."

He shrugs, casual about the request, but still looking as though he kind of expects Steve to say no. Steve considers it for a second. Lucy can manage just fine for a little while longer, he knows this from both experience and her training. And he likes to think she'd want him to accept this kind of invitation, anyway.

"That sounds nice, actually," Steve says with a frown, somehow remaining calm on the surface despite the hammering in his chest. "I could go for something that hasn't been sitting in my fridge for three days."

Bucky smiles, something relieved about the expression.

"Awesome," he says. "Be right back."

He backs away a few steps, before turning around and heading into the back room, leaving Steve standing there with a sudden, odd sensation in his gut. He takes a deep breath, grips his paper cup a little tighter. This isn't weird, right? Unconventional, sure, not to mention surprising―Steve doesn't exactly often find himself going out to eat at two a.m. with a virtual stranger. But Bucky seems friendly enough, and Steve does enjoy talking to him. He's got a nice vibe.

And Steve likes having a new friend. Even if it's an unfairly cute one.

 

* * *

 

Bucky isn't sure what the hell he's doing. He certainly didn't plan on sharing a pizza with a customer he's spoken to only a handful of times, here at the small pizzeria around the corner from _Lola_ , at two-thirty in the morning.

He didn't plan on it, and he still doesn't know where the impulse to suggest it came from, but he's glad that he went with it.

"Personally," Steve says, "I think the reboot wasn't just unnecessary, it was insulting."

He sounds so serious when he says it, but in a light, friendly kind of way. It's an interesting paradox.

"Oh, for sure," Bucky agrees, folding up a pizza slice and dipping it in some garlic sauce. "The whole reason those movies worked in the first place was 'cause Freddy is... well, Freddy."

Steve nods, mouth now full of food. He makes sure to swallow it down before replying. Such manners.

"Right," he says. "He's supposed to be this campy, fucked-up character, not all dark and gritty." He shakes his head with a sigh, eyes the slice in his hand. "No respect."

Bucky huffs a laugh as he chews, amused by the look on Steve's face.

"Basically, Elm Street should be left alone," he says. Unlike Steve, he doesn't bother swallowing his food before talking. "And Englund is irreplaceable."

"Agreed." Steve raises his glass of water, which Bucky clinks with his own. They both reasoned that avoiding caffeine and sugar at the moment seemed like the best course of action, given the time. Even alcohol. The cup of coffee Steve got is sitting beside him on the table, only half-empty, brought from _Lola_ through the cold early spring night.

"So," Steve says after a little while, eyes on his pizza. There's something soft about his tone, almost tentative. He seems to search for the words for a moment, before settling on, "This was a good idea."

Bucky blinks, gets the impression that it wasn't quite what Steve meant to say. But he doesn't linger on it, just smiles.

"Yeah, it was," he says. He chuckles, dips his new slice in some garlic sauce. "I've had worse birthdays."

He realizes what he just let slip the moment the words are out of his mouth, about the same time as Steve does.

"Wait, it's your birthday?" Steve sounds baffled, and Bucky looks up at him. _Shit._ Too late, now.

"Yes?" he says, somehow turning it into a question, and Steve pulls back, eyes wide.

"Why didn't you say so?" he says. Bucky shrugs, prompting an almost offended huff from Steve, as he folds his arms. "I can't believe you didn't tell me it's your birthday."

Bucky breathes a surprised laugh, frowning.

"I don't even know your last name, Steve," he says. "Why would I tell you about that?"

Steve's eyes narrow, as though considering that point.

"Rogers," he says.

"What?"

"Steve Rogers." Steve extends his hand over the table, and Bucky glances back and forth between it and his face. He takes the hand with his own―warm and solid, with a good grip―and slowly shakes it.

"Bucky Barnes," he says. Steve's mouth quirks up in a half-smile. Which is just unfairly charming, if Bucky is being totally honest.

"Happy birthday, Bucky Barnes," Steve says, releasing Bucky's hand and leaning back in his chair.

Bucky can't help the smile that pulls at his lips, nodding as he holds Steve's gaze.

"Thank you," he says, and he means it. Steve just smiles a little wider, a wordless _you're welcome._

"So, has your birthday just ended, or is it just starting?" Steve asks.

Bucky exhales, takes two fries from the small plastic basket and eats them in one go.

"Just starting," he says. "I've officially been twenty-eight for―" He checks the clock on the wall, its glass covered in a thin sheen of grease― "almost three hours." He'd check the time on his phone, but it's in the pocket of his jacket hanging over the back of his chair. And honestly, he hasn't once thought about checking it at all since he and Steve sat down.

Steve nods, eyebrows raised.

"I'm twenty-seven in a few months," he says. Bucky frowns, stops mid-chew.

"I thought you already were?" he says, recalling their last conversation, when it was stated how far both of them were from forty. Steve just shrugs―and doesn't seem to find it strange that Bucky remembers.

"Just rounding up," he says, which only gets a doubtful eyebrow-raise from Bucky. He chuckles, glances down at the table, running his fingers along the edge of it. "I don't know. I like twenty-seven better."

"As a number, or as an age?" Bucky asks, a little jokingly. "Because if it's the latter, I'm feeling pretty offended, right now."

Steve laughs.

"Maybe I'm just mentally preparing myself," he says, folding his arms as he leans back in his chair. There's a pause, and he glances away before the eye-contact goes on for too long. "So how do you usually spend your birthdays?"

The question takes Bucky a little by surprise, even though it really shouldn't.

"Uh," he says, his turn now to look away, adjusting the napkin lying beside his plate, so far unused. "I used to go out. Let loose, mess around a bit."

"And now?"

Bucky shrugs, looks back up.

"Now, not so much," he says. "I guess I'm a little more chill, these days."

"Ah, lost youth," Steve says dramatically, coaxing a smile from Bucky. "I spent most of my early twenties studying."

"What'd you study?" Bucky asks, happy to divert attention away from himself.

"Architecture," Steve says. "Lived in DC for a while. Then I realized architecture was too... rigid, I guess. It's artistic, definitely, just not artistic _enough_ for me." He shrugs. "So I switched to interior design. Same field, but it's a lot more fun to work with the _inside_ of a building. More personal. A nice way to implement my creative skills in a practical, not to mention paid, way."

Bucky's mouth pulls up into a soft smile.

"I'll take your word for it," he says. "Never really been the artsy type, myself."

"Then, what type are you?" Steve asks the question a little apprehensively, averting his eyes as he picks up a few fries in one go, dipping them in garlic sauce. It's almost all gone, now.

Bucky has a feeling that Steve is being careful; he must have noticed how evasive Bucky has been about himself, even if he hasn't mentioned it. In some way, Bucky appreciates how Steve keeps giving him an out, showing interest but allowing Bucky to simply not answer if he doesn't want to.

Bucky wants to tell him. Wants to talk about himself, personal details, career, and all that. But if he goes into that, he'll have to go into why he doesn't have that career anymore, and that'll just lead to a whole other bunch of things he's not ready to share, just yet.

He scoffs, smiling.

"Oh my god," he drawls, very clearly teasing, rolling his head back. "Why are you so obsessed with me?"

Steve snorts.

"You're a fascinating person," he deadpans, putting the fries in his mouth and chewing as he looks back to Bucky and holds his gaze. He swallows. "Who knows what kind of secrets you have?"

Bucky can't quite tell if Steve is kidding or not, but he decides to not dwell on it. He folds his arms against the table, leaning forward a little bit.

"If it helps," he says, "my secrets aren't that interesting."

Steve hums, leans in real close before leaning back in his chair again. "I'll be the judge of that. I mean, if you eventually decide to share them."

Bucky smiles. He really likes this guy.

"Maybe." He leans back in his chair, mirroring Steve. "If you earn it," he adds, though he has a feeling that Steve maybe already has.

 

* * *

 

They stay for another fifteen minutes or so, before Steve has to head back home, anxiety over Lucy creeping into his mind, despite how wonderful of a time he's having with Bucky. It's shocking, really, how well it's been going. He hasn't fumbled once, that he can tell. Not even when he gently prodded for more information on Bucky, who graciously shook it off. Not even then did he feel like sinking through the floor.

The night is surprisingly, bitingly cold when they step outside, immediately buttoning up their jackets and wrapping scarves around their necks. Bucky looks more on the stylish side, Steve thinks, more put-together in his dark pea coat and skinny jeans, than Steve wearing the same zip-up jacket he's had for years. Steve tries not to feel self-conscious about it. In his defense, he didn't exactly make an effort when leaving his apartment, earlier.

"Well," Steve says, when they're standing out on the sidewalk. "I hope you had a good birthday. _Have_ a good birthday." He cocks his head, revises. "A good start to your birthday."

Bucky laughs, and it makes his eyes crinkle in a way Steve is already fond of.

"I did," he says. "Thank you."

Steve just nods, smiling. Then he realizes that they're about to part ways, and that they've actually spent time as friends now, _outside_ of Bucky's workplace. Outside of any obligations Bucky might have to talk to him. Bucky even invited him out, this was his idea. As though he actually _wants_ to spend time with Steve.

This might be as good a time as any to make an effort.

"Hey, if you―" Steve starts, before cutting himself off. Anxiety grips his insides, and he takes a deep breath as discreetly as he can, while Bucky watches him expectantly. _Fuck it._ "My office is just a couple of blocks from here, and I'm there pretty much always, when I'm not sleeping. So if you ever have some time to kill, you can stop by, if you want. Just hang out. Or whatever."

Bucky doesn't respond right away. H seems a little surprised, but doesn't exactly look put-off by the idea, even if Steve's uncomfortably pounding pulse insists otherwise. There's that familiar cold sweat on the back of his neck, which has been blissfully absent for most of his interactions with Bucky, so far. Thankfully, Bucky doesn't leave him hanging.

"Yeah," Bucky says after a few moments, nodding. "Sounds fun. Or, I don't know, I wouldn't wanna bother you or anything―"

"You wouldn't be," Steve assures him, relieved that Bucky's uncertainty actually seems sincere, rather than just a way of politely getting out of something. "I make my own hours, and it'd be nice to get a little break, sometimes. Aside from just walking Lucy."

Bucky's brow settles into a deep frown, confusion and surprise lining his face, and Steve almost physically smacks himself in the forehead. He forgot he hasn't actually mentioned Lucy to Bucky, despite all the hours they've spent talking over the past few weeks.

"Uh, my dog," he hurries to say, gesturing vaguely. "Lucy. Lucy's my dog."

Now Bucky's eyebrows shoot up, instead.

"Wait, you have a dog?" he blurts, probably more excitedly than intended, judging by his somewhat self-conscious expression a second later.

"Yes," Steve says, and Bucky's mouth just hangs open for a second, before he gets a stunned, almost offended expression. He hunches his shoulders in something like an extended shrug.

"Well," he says, "now I _have_ to come over."

"Oh yeah?" Steve says, can't help but smile.

"Yeah," Bucky says. "You give me no choice. There's a dog there, my hands are tied."

He sounds dead serious, and combined with the sudden, excited glow in his eyes, Steve can't hide his own amusement. He nods.

"Got it," he says. "You just wanna hang out with my dog."

"Well, yeah," Bucky says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. Then he tilts his head back and forth, glancing upward. "I mean, I guess I wanna hang out with you, too. But the dog has won me over."

"You haven't met her yet."

"She has still won me over."

Steve shrugs, with a huff of laughter.

"Can't argue with that," he says. Bucky's mask slips then, and he grins, nudging Steve's arm with his elbow, hands still in his coat pockets.

"I'll make sure to stop by," he says, and he sounds like he actually means it. Steve nods.

"Just let me know if you do," he says. He realizes something then, and feels another surge of frustrating anxiety run beneath his skin. "Uh, speaking of, maybe I should give you my number?"

_Wow,_ there is just no way of asking that without coming off as flirting. Then again, they're clearly discussing hanging out as friends, and friends exchange numbers, right? Not to mention, there's no indication that Bucky is even anything but straight. Straight, like the vast majority of the population, Steve is painfully aware.

Bucky doesn't seem to find any of this odd, however.

"Sure," he says, simply and easily, like it's no big deal at all―which it shouldn't be. He gets his phone from his pocket―headphones already plugged in―and navigates the screen, before handing the phone to Steve, who quickly types in his name and number. He hands it back, and Bucky shoots off a text, making Steve's phone vibrate in his pocket. When he checks it, sure enough, there's a text from Bucky―containing nothing but a dog emoji. Steve snorts.

"Thanks," he says, putting the phone back, and Bucky just grins.

"No problem."

A few seconds of silence pass between them, punctured by the murmur of passersby and the light traffic occupying the street behind them.

"So, uh," Steve says, a little awkwardly. "I should head home." He cocks his head. "To my dog."

Bucky's eyebrows go up, and he nods.

"Right," he says. "My new favorite person."

"Hey, you might hate her when you actually meet her."

"Entirely impossible."

"Fine."

They both just stand there smiling for a minute, before Bucky snaps out of it.

"Right," he says, gesturing down the street, hand still in his pocket. "I'm that way."

"And I'm―" Steve trails off, just gesturing in the opposite direction. Bucky smiles, a little crookedly. It's a good look on him.

"See you, Steve."

Steve nods, at this point very comfortably warm beneath his jacket.

"'Night, Bucky."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pizza-bonding. Also I'm weak for Natasha and Steve being bros (and Scott! My boy! Welcome!)
> 
> Find me on [the twitters](http://twitter.com/lemonoclefox)! And feel free to use #DGMWfic if you have thoughts about the fic (or just hang out, that works, too).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm painfully slow with updating this, but here is a new chapter (yay!). Some backstory, I guess? And just bros being bros? Hanging out? Just some soft vibes and our boys getting to know each other better.

_Three years ago_

 

"Why can't you go out, Steve?"

Steve doesn't look up. He keeps his eyes on his hands, picking at his cuticles and chewing his cheek.

"Just can't," he says, shaking his head.

"Let me rephrase," Dr. Banner says patiently. _Bruce,_ Steve corrects himself. The doctor has asked him to call him Bruce. "How do you feel, when you try to go out?"

Steve glances up at him briefly, before looking back down.

"Scared," he admits, his voice low, as though that will make the confession less embarrassing.

"Of what?"

"I don't know," Steve says, a little too quickly and perhaps a little too sharply. He can't help it; he has been asked this question by so many people so many times and he's tired of not being able to answer it to their satisfaction.

"That's okay," Bruce says, to his surprise. "Oftentimes, it's not something concrete. Just a feeling."

Steve looks up at him, carefully.

"Yeah," he says. That sounds about right.

"Which part makes you feel scared?" Bruce says, adjusting his position in his chair and the notepad on his lap. Steve shakes his head.

"I don't―" he starts, before trailing off.

"When does it start?" Bruce clarifies. "Does it start when you _think_ about leaving? When you open the door? Is it the thought of what might happen when you're actually out there that scares you? Does it start when you're actually out?"

Steve ponders that for a few seconds, starting to pick at the seam of his jeans, instead of his fingers.

"I don't know," he settles on, shaking his head. "All of it, maybe. I _want_ to go out, I _want_ to do things and talk to people, be impulsive and spontaneous. I try to, I really do. It's just... I _can't._ "

To Bruce's credit, he's asking proper questions. He knows what to ask for, what to look for, where to go next when Steve isn't sure. Steve appreciates that. It's more than anyone has been able to do, so far. Just acknowledging that there is a problem, to begin with, and not just saying over and over that Steve should simply "get out of his comfort zone" in order to fix this thing that has somehow ended up controlling his life. Bruce knows what Steve means when he says that he can't. He understands the nuances of it, without Steve having to explain.

Steve is already glad he decided to ask for help.

"Must be difficult," Bruce says. There's no hint of sarcasm, like Steve has gotten used to, when it comes to that kind of statement. Instead, he sounds sympathetic, as though it pains him that Steve is going through what he is. Hearing it brings an almost uncomfortably intense sense of relief, much to Steve's surprise. Just being validated seems to be enough. "How do you feel about social situations?"

"How do you mean?"

"Spending time with friends?" Bruce clarifies. "Going out with them?"

Steve nods.

"That's okay," he says. "Mostly. I have a few close friends, being with them is fine. Doesn't really make me anxious. And I'm mostly fine doing things if I just... tag along. Or, sometimes if I've been at that certain place before."

Bruce nods, makes a note, barely even having to look down to do it.

"That's good," he says, looking over the rim of his glasses. "How about strangers? Could be in the workplace, the grocery store, restaurants, appointments. Even public transport."

Steve takes a deep breath, a familiar, uncomfortable prickle at the back of his neck, something like cold sweat shivering across his skin for just a brief second.

"That's harder," he says, swallowing. "When I do it alone. It makes me... nervous."

"How hard is it, right now? Here?" Bruce asks, absently fiddling with his pen, slowly. "On a scale of one to ten, ten being the hardest."

Steve thinks about it, is honestly surprised by how relatively relaxed he feels, at the moment.

"Four?" he settles on, and Bruce nods, making another note.

"That's good," he says. "I'm glad."

Something about that makes Steve's muscles unwind a bit, like the words offer some needed reassurance.

It's silent for a little while, as Bruce seemingly waits to see if Steve wants to say something else. When he doesn't, Bruce settles a little more in his chair, as though getting more comfortable. Steve thinks he's already looked very comfortable the whole time. More so than you'd expect from a serious professional. But there's something about this man, this place, this room. It feels more like visiting someone's home and having a chat, than an appointment at a medical facility.

"Steve," Bruce says, somehow managing to sound friendly, unlike most people―especially therapists and the like―tend to do when saying your name. Like they think it'll make you more relaxed and familiar to hear it repeated an unnatural amount of times, during a conversation. _We're not friends,_ Steve always feels the urge to bite out whenever someone does it. It's always annoying, more than anything else, as well as patronizing. But not with Bruce. "You have some serious troubles with social anxiety, that much is clear."

Steve frowns. None of this comes as a surprise to him, since he knows what the term means, but it feels surprisingly strange to hear it applied to him, so plainly. Out loud. Officially.

"Okay," he says, nodding. _How can we fix it?_ he wants to ask, but doesn't. He has a feeling it's not that simple, can barely even imagine not having these problems that he has, in the first place.

"I'm gonna suggest CBT to treat it," Bruce says, as though hearing Steve's silent question. "It'll be a lot of work, a lot of exercises and checking in. You'd have to stick with it and work on whatever assignments you get, even when it gets tough. Because it will. But it might help."

"Might?"

"There's no guarantee," Bruce says, inclining his head as he slowly spins his pen in his hands. "There never is. But CBT helps a lot of people, so it's worth a try. If you're willing to put in the work?"

Steve nods, without hesitation.

"Yes," he says. "I am."

Bruce smiles, tired eyes crinkling behind his glasses. It's a friendly smile, calm and understanding, without being pitying or overly familiar. Steve hadn't really realized how much he needed that, until now, how much he needed all of this.

"I'm glad to hear that, Steve," Bruce says. A pause. "You're gonna be okay."

 

* * *

 

_Present_

Steve's phone buzzes with a text, lighting up the screen, and he slides his finger across, revealing the message. It's from Bucky. Steve straightens a little in his chair.

 _U up?_ it says. Steve frowns in confusion. Before he has much time to think about it, though, another text follows. _Shit sorry, that was for my other interior designer friend whose office I'm on my way to visit rn._ A pause, followed by another text. _Might as well stop by yours instead though._

Steve laughs, can't help it despite the swoop in his stomach at the idea of Bucky coming over here _already_ (and the idea of Bucky referring to him as a _friend_ ) _._ Sure, it's been a few days since they last saw each other at that pizzeria, and they have been texting a little bit since Steve hasn't been able to stop by _Lola_ , but still.

Steve takes a breath as he taps out a reply.

 _They wouldn't appreciate you like I do,_ he writes, and hits send before he can stop himself. He has always been more relaxed and social over text, but this is a lot, especially regarding someone he has only even spoken to a few times and never even really hung out with. Not like this, outside of casual, accidental situations. This is now a planned thing, in his space, and he's suddenly nervous.

 _Sold,_ Bucky replies. _Want me to bring anything?_

Steve considers that for a moment.

 _No I'm good,_ he says, before adding some information about which floor and office number he's at. Bucky's reply is swift; a hang loose emoji, which Steve assumes is used ironically. Bucky seems like the type, and Steve has honestly yet to meet someone who texts one without any irony at all.

Steve puts the phone down on his desk and swivels around in his chair with a sigh. Lucy looks up at him from where she lies on the floor, her head between her front paws, eyebrows raised.

"You ready to meet Bucky?" he asks, and Lucy lifts her head, alerted by the his tone of voice. "I think you'll like him. And he's a new friend, so I gotta make a good impression. Don't embarrass me. Behave."

Lucy tilts her head, playing up the natural dog-innocence about her. _I would never,_ her eyes say, and Steve snorts, turning back to his work.

He tries not to think about the fact that Bucky is on his way, but it's hard not to. He rarely has visitors here, aside from clients, and even then they prefer to do most of the check-ins over e-mail―which Steve is perfectly fine with. Sometimes a friend will drop by, but any socializing he does tends to happen outside of work hours. And, well, he doesn't really know Bucky. Not really. Honestly, embarrassingly enough, he just really wants Bucky to like him.

The knock on the door that comes about fifteen minutes later makes Steve jump, just as Lucy gets up from the floor, eyes on the source of the sound. She doesn't bark at the door, never really does, but instead growls low in her throat, and Steve pats her head gently on his way to let the visitor inside. Lucy immediately settles down, but Steve gestures at her to stay put, for good measure.

Bucky is glancing up and down the hallway outside the door when Steve opens it, and almost looks a little startled when he spots Steve. Then he looks relieved, and lifts the corner of his mouth in a crooked smile.

"Hi," he says, and Steve steps aside and opens the door wider.

"Hey," he says. "Come on in."

Bucky almost immediately spots Lucy, whose tail has started swishing back and forth across the rug in the middle of the room, as she watches this newcomer. Bucky lights up, and folds in a smile as he turns to Steve.

"Is this her?" he asks, pointing at Lucy.

"No," Steve says. "It's a different dog." Bucky gives him a flat look, and Steve relents with a chuckle. "Yeah, go ahead."

Bucky doesn't waste a second in crouching down in front of Lucy, who leaps forward to greet him the moment Steve gives her a nod of permission, almost knocking Bucky over with sheer excitement, rather than size. She's not a big dog; a medium-sized poodle mix, she just reaches up past Steve's knee, when they're both standing.

It's after a solid thirty seconds of cuddling and happy noises from both Lucy and her apparent new best friend, that Bucky heaves a heavy, contented sigh.

"I knew it," he says, still ruffling around the curls on Lucy's neck and face. Steve frowns, arms folded as he watches the two of them.

"Knew what?" he asks.

"That we'd hit it off." Bucky says it plainly, plopping down on the floor properly, crossing his legs. Steve quirks a smile, rolling his eyes.

"Don't flatter yourself," he says. "She's like that with everyone."

"I don't believe his lies," Bucky says seriously to the dog, locking their eyes. "Don't worry. What we have is special."

Steve chuckles, while Lucy just happily pants in Bucky's face.

"Can I get you anything?" Steve asks, and Bucky looks up.

"Depends on what you've got," he says. Steve raises his eyebrows, thinking.

"Well," he says, "I've got water. Coffee. Tea. Maybe even some baby carrots."

Bucky gasps.

"Even baby carrots?" he exclaims in mock glee. "Gee, if only I hadn't already brought something better."

Steve pulls back a little.

"I told you not to bring anything," he says, and Bucky clicks his tongue.

"No," he says, slowly getting up from the floor, much to Lucy's disappointment. "I asked if you _wanted_ me to bring anything, and you said no. I still brought something. That I wanted."

"And what would that be?" he says, reluctantly intrigued. Bucky raises his eyebrows with a conspiring, yet almost haughty look. Eyes on Steve, he reaches into the shoulder bag he dropped on Steve's desk when he came in, and pulls out a paper bag.

"Only the best panini around." He shrugs nonchalantly. "You can have some, if you want. I'm feeling generous today."

Steve must admit that the concept sounds delicious, and he gives Bucky a slightly narrow-eyed look.

"Well, if I'd known panini was on the table," he says, "I wouldn't have been so quick to reject the idea of bringing something."

Bucky holds up the bag, enticingly dangles it in front of Steve's face.

"I'm willing to share," he says, and Steve looks up at the ceiling with a huff.

"Fine," he says. "Yes, please."

"Great."

"Want something to drink with that?" Steve asks dryly, and Bucky nods.

"Water's good," he says, pulling the paninis out of their packaging. He offers one to Steve, who exchanges it for a bottle of water he gets from the fridge of his kitchenette. "Thanks."

Bucky starts unwrapping his sandwich, slowly sauntering over to the one, rather large window in the office. Steve, meanwhile, examines the panini left on the desk, and frowns.

"How'd you know to get two?" he asks, and Bucky turns to him, now chewing a big bite. He smiles, mouth closed, but full.

"Lucky guess," he says. He swallows the bite. "And, also, it's five p.m.. Figured that you being hungry was a realistic assumption. Worst case, I'd just eat it myself. Hope you like salami."

He shrugs, and Steve turns back to his own panini. He starts unwrapping the paper.

"Well, thanks," he says, feeling like the word doesn't quite cut it. "I appreciate it. I'll have to actually pay you back sometime, what with all the free baked goods, and now this."

Bucky makes a noise, frowning.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "And this kind of stuff tends to even out eventually anyway, right?"

He takes another bite and looks out the window, oblivious to Steve's pause. Bucky says that as though he expects this to happen again, as though he expects the two of them to spend enough time together to even out in terms of treating the other. It brings a small smile to Steve's face.

"I guess," he says quietly.

They make some small-talk while they eat, Bucky wandering around the small office and asking about this framed wall art and that diploma. He remarks on the luxury of a private, albeit small washroom, as well as the tiny kitchenette in the corner, and Steve is inclined to agree.

It's surprisingly effortless, not awkward, aside from the ordinary nerves that might come with someone seeing your place for the first time. Sure, it's not Steve's home, but it might as well be. He spends most of his waking hours here, after all.

Bucky eventually ends up back by the window―there isn't exactly much more to examine, after all―and the empty paper wrapper from his panini has found a new home in the trashcan beneath Steve's desk. Steve has finished his sandwich off, as well, and is now mostly lounging in his desk chair, absently half-spinning it back and forth. There's a pen in his hands, mostly to keep his fingers busy.

"You've got a nice setup here," Bucky says, and Steve smiles.

"Thank you," he says. "I know."

A brief, crooked smile from Bucky, before he lapses back into silence. He swallows. Then he pauses for a moment, as though hesitating, and he's still looking out the window when he pushes the sleeves of his Henley up to his elbows. At first, it only draws Steve's attention because _damn he has great arms,_ but his eyes are quickly drawn to the very clear scarring below Bucky's left sleeve. The side which Bucky has angled toward him.

Steve does his best not to stare, hides his surprise as he gives himself a few seconds to take it in, while Bucky's gaze is averted. Maybe that's why it's averted, Steve wonders. He must obviously be aware of how his arm looks to other people, and is giving Steve a moment to react. Steve weirdly appreciates it, even though he strongly feels that Bucky shouldn't have to think about that, at all.

It's pretty bad, though, the scarring. Bad enough to make Steve feel oddly sad, as well as shocked. The skin looks almost patched-together in places, criss-crossing in raised, jagged lines of white and red and pink, the smooth skin underneath barely visible at all. The scars unevenly reach down along the arm, the underside seemingly less damaged, the gnarled tissue ending just above the wrist. Just far up enough to be easily hidden with sleeves.

Steve can only see the lower arm, but judging by the scarring getting thicker and more severe where it disappears up under the sleeve by the elbow, he can imagine that the upper arm looks even worse.

"So, what do you do all day?" Bucky asks, something forced casual about his tone, and Steve whips his eyes away from the scarring up to Bucky's face, the moment he turns back. Steve shrugs, determined to be as casual and nonchalant about what he just saw as Bucky seems to attempt, himself.

"Little bit of everything," he says. "I mean, depends on the day. Some days I basically draw from nine to five, other days I talk to clients or hunt down furniture and stuff. Some days I have to actually _carry_ furniture up and down stairs, which is always a good workout." Bucky frowns, and Steve explains, "I'm a freelancer, still pretty small, and if you don't have room in your budget for hiring people to do the heavy lifting, you basically gotta do it yourself."

Bucky's eyebrows rise, and he nods.

"I did not know that," he says. Steve huffs a laugh, a little self-deprecating.

"Yeah, well," he says. "Most people assume interior design is just adding plants and fluffing up pillows. Which... is just not accurate."

"So there's no adding plants and fluffing up pillows?"

"There is," Steve says, aware that Bucky is only teasing. "Just also another thousand things, on top of that."

Bucky nods, mouth quirked in a small smile.

"Got it." He turns back to the window. "Pretty great view, at least."

"Yeah," Steve says absently. He taps his pen against his palm; _one two three, one two three, one two three._ "What about you?" he asks, trying to be casual about pushing the same question he's attempted a few times, since they met. He can't help it; he just wants to get to know this guy.

"What about me?" Bucky says, turning back to him.

"What did you do before _Lola_?"

Bucky takes a slow breath, puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Black skinny jeans. His shoes are black boots, not quite as clunky as combat boots. It's a good look.

"You know," he says with a half-shrug, evasive. His hand comes up to tuck some stray hairs behind his ear, and Steve feels a little bad about asking, fully aware that Bucky has deliberately avoided answering up until now. He's just about to take it back, when Bucky continues with a sigh. He seems to decide on just going with it, putting his hand back in his pocket. "Engineering," he says, and Steve can't help the slight surprise on his own face. "Kind of. I mean, I studied it. Did it for work, for a little while."

Steve nods slowly.

"Didn't expect that," he says without thinking, and Bucky's eyebrows rise.

"Why not?" he says. Steve shrugs.

"I don't know," he says, leaning back in his chair, still tapping the pen against his palm. "Guess you just don't seem like the engineer type."

Bucky huffs a laugh.

"Then what kind of type do I seem like?" he says.

 _My type,_ Steve thinks, then immediately forces himself not to.

There's a two-seat couch on the opposite side of the room from Steve's desk, its color a neutral shade of cream, and Bucky makes his way over to it. He plops down, seems surprised by how comfortable the couch is.

"Something more..." Steve starts. "Abstract? Maybe?"

"Abstract?" Bucky says with a laugh. He has already gotten comfortable on the couch, settling against the cushions.

"Yeah," Steve says, smiling. "Something creative. Maybe not art-creative, but..." He shrugs. "Something."

Bucky narrows his eyes, rests his ankle against his knee, folding his arms over his chest. The black shirt he's wearing isn't exactly tight, but tight enough for the fabric to stretch a little over subtle, lean muscle. Steve does his best to keep his eyes from wandering to the scarred skin of his left arm.

"You sound awfully sure for someone who barely knows me," Bucky says, but it sounds more playfully suspicious, than anything.

Steve chuckles a little self-consciously, looking down at his hands. Normally, such a comment would have him sweating and on his way to panicking, too self-aware and uncomfortable. But not with Bucky. It's just so _easy_ with Bucky, and he can't fathom why.

"Well," Steve says, looking back up, "I gotta fill in the blanks."

Bucky seems confused for a split second, before his expression shifts a little, and it's clear that he understands what Steve means. Thankfully, he doesn't seem offended, or annoyed.

"Yeah," he says, with a slightly awkward chuckle. "Sorry about that. I just―" He exhales a huff. "I'm a private person, I guess."

"I get it," Steve says, nodding. "You don't have to share, or anything. I can tell you everything about me, instead. Talk your ear off." Bucky lets out a proper laugh, and Steve keeps going. "Or I could go through every single _Hellraiser_ movie, ranking them. Or talk about my dog. Or tell you about my favorite takeaway places, and why they're my favorites―"

"Alright, I got it," Bucky interrupts, but he's grinning. "I got it."

He takes a deep breath and exhales heavily, while Steve just watches him with a small smile on his face. He has started spinning his pen slowly in his hands, rather than tapping. Bucky, meanwhile, unfolds his arms and taps his fingers lightly against the edge of the couch, as though thinking. Then he gets up, very suddenly.

"It's very quiet," he says, almost reprimanding, and Steve frowns.

"Uh―"

"What do you listen to, all day?"

Steve swivels in his chair as Bucky heads over to his desk.

"I don't know," Steve fumbles. "Podcasts? Music? Nothing, sometimes."

"Nothing?"

Steve shrugs. "I like it quiet."

Bucky hums, and Steve can't quite tell if it's disapproving, or not. He glances at Steve.

"May I?" He gestures at the computer, and Steve nods. Bucky then proceeds to lean down and commandeer the mouse, opening up Spotify. As he does, Steve has to take a second. Because this is the closest the two of them have ever been, so far, and Bucky's left shoulder is bumping just slightly against his right.

Steve allows his gaze to trail up along Bucky's neck, where wisps of brown hair are coming loose from their bun, curling around his ear and feathering against his skin. Steve can see the faintest beat of Bucky's pulse below his ear, and _god_ what a jaw line. And he smells good, too. Steve tries not to think about that too hard.

"Steve," Bucky says, snapping him out of it. Thankfully, his eyes are on the screen, unaware of Steve's observations.

"Hm?" Steve says.

"This is pretty sad."

Steve frowns, glancing at his meager playlist selection, then back at Bucky's profile. What a profile.

"I'm sorry, what?" he says.

"Is this all?" Bucky turns to him then, and Steve is proud of himself for not jerking back at the proximity. Instead, his eyes are fixed on Bucky's, unyielding. Bucky's eyes are gray.

"Yes?" Steve replies, his hesitation turning it into a question. Bucky hums again, pressing his lips together, this time in clear disapproval.

"Well," he says, drawing out the word as he turns back to the screen. "I suppose this'll do, for now." He picks a playlist―a rather mellow, but eclectic one that Steve doesn't listen to very often―and hits shuffle.

"For now?" Steve asks dryly.

"Yeah." Bucky turns up the volume a bit, then straightens. He folds his arms over his chest. "I'll put together some stuff."

"Ah," Steve says. With Bucky standing, he has to lean back a little in his chair to maintain eye contact. "How magnanimous of you."

"I try." Bucky quirks a smile, a little smug, and Steve is charmed. He can imagine that Bucky charms everyone.

"Looking forward to it," Steve says, following Bucky with his gaze as he makes his way back to the couch. He sits back down, catches Lucy's eye, and looks up at Steve.

"Is she allowed up here?" he asks, a hint of pleading in his voice, and Steve chuckles.

"I appreciate you asking," he says. "Most people wouldn't. And yes, she's allowed."

Bucky brightens, and pats the cushion next to him. Lucy immediately clambers up onto the couch, tail wagging, and lets herself be petted and scratched, mouth hanging open.

"Well," Bucky says lightly, eyes on Lucy and entirely smitten, "then I'm glad I'm not most people."

Steve just smiles, silently agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a particularly long chapter at all, but I wanted to post an update. Thanks for reading! You can find me on [the twitters](http://twitter.com/lemonoclefox) if you want!
> 
> Also, if you want something to hold you over until the next update, I've got a lighthearted three-part fic going on over [here](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/50116883?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#main).


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